Fun with Former Vikings
by Reverberating Winds
Summary: Brothers that are too awkward to even stand next to each other, husband and 'wife', and that one guy that drinks a lot. The Nordics couldn't be any more different. And neither could the situations they get themselves into.
1. Tattoos

Chapter 1: Bros 4 Lyfe

* * *

It was a breezy summer morning in the idyllic Swedish countryside, with fluffy clouds high in the endless blue sky, floating across the hills of emerald green land, carried by the gentle wind that rustled the sheets on the clothesline just outside Sweden's country home. On the clothesline hung droplets of condensation, crystalline shimmer accentuated by the sunlight. Dew clung to each thick blade of glass; diamonds nestled in the bright green meadow that followed the curve of every knoll. The sunshine was bright, but just so that the rays kissed the skin with nothing more than a warm, nearly human touch. The peace beyond the walls of the house was the exact reason Sweden had chosen to busy himself with touching up the exterior of his house. He even planned to make a trip to the city for errands. Inside, however, four other people were visiting.

Originally, this would not have been a problem. Norway and Iceland were both shy, Iceland more so than Norway, who was reticent but firm every time he spoke. Both were well mannered and slightly unobtrusive—Sweden often forgot they were at his house, only to catch himself annoyed with himself and his surprise at finding Norway sitting in the living room or Iceland observing the quiescence of the countryside just by the window, even though they had already been there for three days. He found it vaguely amusing that Iceland refused to believe they were brothers, even with the proof of a DNA test and the obvious similarities between them in personality and habits. As for Finland, the most human of them all, well, Finland visited so often Sweden was accustomed to finding a visitor nearly every time he returned home from a long day. How Finland managed to get into Sweden's house was beyond him; Finland didn't have the house key or anything. He seemed to materialize out of thin air, grinning, usually laden with bags of trinkets, food, or books that he wanted to show Sweden. At twenty years of age, Finland had a most endearing childish demeanor to him. He was humble and gentle, with a warm heart—the stark contrast of Denmark, the visitor that Sweden wished he hadn't invited. Whether or not Sweden invited him, Denmark would show up and 'crash the party' because Denmark had no sense of humility or common sense. Denmark, was, put simply, a self proclaimed badass that believed himself to be the king of northern Europe. With Sweden, Norway, Finland, and Iceland to the north, this was obviously a misconception. Besides that, Denmark thrived off of causing trouble, drinking excessively, and doing as he pleases without any consideration of others' opinions or feelings. He was quite bossy as well, and yielded not a centimeter when Sweden would intervene to resolve the situation at hand. Denmark was the one house guest that Sweden deeply resented, and had resented for centuries.

Iceland, living slightly isolated (or in this case, ice-solated, haha) from the Nordics on a chunk of volcanic land due west, had a certain naivety that shrouded him. He was young, sixteen years old, soon to seventeen, but Sweden wondered if Iceland actually knew about the basics of life…the inevitable truths, such as the birds and bees, and the fact there were bad people and things out there. Sweden gave him the benefit of the doubt in this case. He brushed the thought aside and flung white bed sheets over the clothesline, pinning it expertly. Already he could hear barbaric yelling from inside the house, though it was too indistinct and accented for him to make out the exact words. But by the pitch and volume of the voice, he knew it was Denmark.

"HA! Ice wants a tattoo?"

And that was all Denmark could manage before he succumbed to throes of wild laughter that racked his body like seizures. All it took was casual mention about Iceland's sudden interest in getting a tattoo to send him into hysteria. He was, quite literally, rolling on the floor laughing, legs kicking in the air. Iceland folded his arms and gave Denmark a childishly obstinate look. A rosy flush of humiliation had to begun to bloom on his face. He watched, mortified, as tears began to seep from Denmark's eyes and as his laugh turned silent. A wild grin of mirth was frozen in place on Denmark's countenance as he gasped for breath. Iceland decided it was time to defend himself. He would not be laughed at for something so trivial. Denmark was being absolutely ridiculous.

"What? It's just a tattoo. They're cool." Iceland said under his breath. "You have plenty."

"Yeah, but it's _me._ I'm badass. That's what makes the difference." Denmark replied through final giggles. True—Denmark had a tattoo of a mermaid, his flag, a crown, and an axe. And of course, a tankard of beer. Lodging more laughter in the back of his throat, he stood up from the wood floor of the kitchen and cleared his throat. Denmark surveyed Iceland from head to toe, gave one final hoot of amusement, and laid a heavy hand on Iceland's shoulder.

"We're telling your brother." Denmark chuckled as he steered Iceland toward the living room. Norway spent most of his days on the couch reading, but he could sometimes be found outside, sitting alone and watching the horizon.

"Hey, Norway! Listen to this!" Denmark cried, flailing his arms about.

"I don't think that's such a good idea." Iceland murmured quickly, casting a nervous glance toward Denmark, who shoved Iceland into the living room. Reclining gracefully on the couch, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, book open in hand, and sailor hat placed at a casual angle on his head, was Norway. He was reticent by nature, and lived a private, borderline reclusive lifestyle. It was difficult to tell what he thinking, if he was thinking at all, but there was always a bored, dull look to his eyes. Iceland felt ill at ease around his brother, though whether or not his brother felt the same was a mystery. As soon as Denmark stormed in, Norway looked up from the book he was reading and blinked, unimpressed by this typical behavior.

"Is there are problem?" he asked flatly, closing his book.

"Your little bro," Denmark pinched Iceland's cheek in what was supposed to be an affectionate gesture that ended up being quite painful, "wants to get a tattoo. How cute is that?"

"Is that true, Iceland?" Norway inquired. Iceland was a little hesitant to reply. His brother's expression was so maddeningly indecipherable. Did he or did he not approve of the idea? But Iceland saw his brother's left eyebrow quirk downward slightly in a gesture of doubt or perhaps vexation as the seconds ticked by.

"Is this true?" Norway repeated, firmer this time.

"Well…yes, it is." Iceland replied hesitantly.

Norway made a noncommittal sound in his throat and uncrossed his legs. He slung them over the side of the couch and rose to full height, stretching slightly. He gave a short sigh.

"Hm. I see." Norway said thoughtfully. He gazed at Iceland for a long time, analyzing him (and probably scouring Iceland's soul) before waving him over. Denmark shoved him toward Norway, and Iceland nearly tripped over a coffee table. Iceland felt hot and uncomfortable, standing there, at the mercy of Denmark and Norway as he awaited one of his brother's verdict he so rarely offered. Finally, Norway shrugged and said, "Let's take you to the tattoo studio, then."

"Oh, well then." Denmark said, taken aback by Norway's decision. He smiled and gave a carefree shrug. "I'm riding shotgun!"

Even more surprised was Iceland, who was stunned into silence by his brother's reaction. Truthfully, he wasn't expecting that. What Iceland expected was long diatribe aimed at his 'rebellious' ideals and 'bad' tastes. Iceland clambered into the back seat of the car without a word and watched the green hills pass by.

Denmark was chatty, giving bad directions between stories about the adventures he and Netherlands had at a club in Amsterdam last week. Iceland wasn't too thrilled to listen to his stories, which usually involved violence and beer. Unfortunately, it was a fairly long ride to the suburbs. Denmark showed no signs of running out of stories to bedazzle them with, and he'd ignore any order of silence that Norway threw at him.

"And then, Netherlands slammed this guy in the mouth! Blood was everywhere—"

"That's disgusting." Norway said flatly, frowning slightly. "Right lane or left lane?"

"That one. Anyway—"

"Are you referring to the right lane?" Norway asked. Iceland noted a bit of irritation in his voice.

"Yeah. _Anyway_, this guy was so baked, he thought the blood was minestrone…"

"What do you plan to get a tattoo of, Iceland?" Norway asked. He didn't sound interested, but it was better than listening to Denmark blather on and on about his experiences. Iceland, lost in a turbulent reverie about his mysterious brother, hadn't exactly given that thought.

"Get that volcano. Ejyafjallajokull." Denmark suggested, turning all the way around in his seat to gaze at Iceland in a most entertained fashion.

"Be quiet, I asked Iceland, not you." Norway muttered. Iceland sank in his seat, feeling put on the spot once again. Norway was watching him in the rearview mirror, which only added to Iceland's unease.

"Volcano!" Denmark whispered. "Get it on your back, and then get it so that lava is spewing all the way up to your neck, and add a flaming skull too, and a hot spring with skeletons—"

"_Denmark_. That's enough." Norway said, now fully annoyed. Denmark lifted his hands in a coy act of defense.

"Well, I was thinking about getting a puffin." Iceland said.

"A puffin? That's so gay!" Denmark exclaimed.

"Like the one that follows you around?" Norway asked. He threw Denmark a warning look—Norway would not tolerate any harassment of his younger brother.

"Only at my house. He doesn't like any other place. That's why he's not here now." Iceland replied. He felt incredibly stupid. The puffin didn't even have a name. Iceland didn't want to name it. But Iceland knew him as the cute little birdie that was perched on his head or shoulder in Reykjavik. Denmark scoffed at this comment and Norway nodded thoughtfully.

"That way he'll always be with you even when you're away from home." Norway mused.

"Something like that." Iceland agreed in hopes of ending the conversation.

Upon arriving at the tattoo parlor, Norway bombarded the tattoo artists with questions about safety, disease transmission, HIV, and experience. Iceland wanted to leave, simply because he felt humiliated. Norway was making a fool of himself, but he didn't care. Once he was satisfied with the answers, he filled out Iceland's waiver quickly and said, "I'll be out here. If you need me, let me know."

"You're not going to watch?" Denmark asked, grinning.

"No, I don't like needles." Norway took a seat on a couch in the waiting area and primly crossed his legs. From his jacket he withdrew the book he was reading and let it fall open to the page he was on in his lap. Norway cleared his throat loudly and shooed Iceland and Denmark to the back, where Iceland would be stabbed by a needle thousands of times. Denmark was supposed to supervise, but he would probably feed risks of tattooing to Iceland throughout the procedure. Pain, HIV risk, etcetera.

The tattoo artist introduced himself with a smile. Iceland tried to smile back, but it just looked like he was baring his teeth. Simply looking at the tattooing equipment was a little unnerving. He didn't even want to know how the process went, and this pulled him into another reverie about inventing a way to get tattoos without needles…and it was then he realized he was being asked about where he wanted his tattoo.

"Right shoulder blade." Iceland replied, flustered. He fumbled for something in his pocket, and pulled out a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to the tattoo artist. "And, um, could you do that puffin?"

The artist excused himself for a moment to go make a stencil of the image, leaving Iceland and Denmark alone together. Denmark had a mad grin on his face. Iceland knew what this forecasted.

"Pain." Denmark whispered, leaning closer. "Blood. Suffering. Needles. Stabs."

"Shut up." Iceland snapped, glaring at him.

And minutes later, after all the equipment was prepped, Iceland gasped in pain and surprise when the needle first pierced his skin, marking the start of the outlining process.

Throughout the procedure, Denmark continued his adventure story with Netherlands, which the tattoo artist found amusing. Denmark had no shame to tell a stranger about such heinous experiences with the drug lord of the countries. Norway stopped by once or twice, to make sure Iceland was still alive and that Denmark wasn't being too much of a nuisance. Iceland had decided to focus on the buzz of the needle, which drowned out the pain and pushed Iceland into a cloudy, trance-like train of thought. And before Iceland knew it, a bandage was smacked over his tattoo and he was handed a pamphlet on instructions about how to care for the tattoo as it healed. Norway paid, and the three were on their way back to Sweden's countryside house.

"It actually looks really good." Denmark said with an approving nod. "Seriously. And you didn't even cry. Good job."

"Thanks?" Iceland said, shrugging.

"So…this tattoo." Norway piped up, sounding businesslike. "Is this a way to renounce your childhood, or just an impulsive act that you will regret as you age?"

"Way to kill it, Norway." Denmark murmured, frowning.

"Neither, really." Iceland replied. He racked his mind for an actual reason, but he couldn't find one. It was, more than anything, and impulsive act. But Iceland had been pondering this for a while, so it wasn't impulse alone. "I just wanted a tattoo. Of a puffin."

"Innocent enough, right, Norway?" Denmark said, tousling Norway's hair in a rather brusque fashion. Norway pushed him away halfheartedly, keeping his eyes on the long road ahead of him.

"I suppose." Norway said begrudgingly as he smoothed his blond hair.

"Do you not approve?" Iceland asked curiously. He should've said something about it. Iceland wasn't a rebel. He'd not have had the tattoo done if Norway said no.

"It's not that." Norway said. "It's more of a…" he paused, searching for the words. "A big brother thing."

A big brother thing. Not very eloquent, particularly for someone as cultured and well read as Norway. Iceland shrugged. He didn't know what that meant, and he never would, but it was useless to worry about. Besides, he was a bit hungry and wanted to take a nap in the meadow outside. As soon as they disembarked the car, Denmark sprinted inside, yelling about Iceland's tattoo. Iceland actually saw Sweden scowl through the open window at the sound of Denmark's shouts. But Iceland and Norway, more relaxed, walked calmly, side by side, silent, up the path to the front door. Then, without warning, Norway wrapped an arm around Iceland's shoulders and gave him a manly squeeze. A conservative, nearly undetectable smile followed this brotherly act. Iceland returned the smile shyly, and the two entered the house.

* * *

I love the Nordics.

Will be continued.


	2. Cycling

Chapter: Damn-mark

* * *

"So, bike riding." Denmark set his fork down on his plate and gazed at the fellow Nordics with a miraculously straight countenance. He clasped his hands in front of him on the table before continuing, though he almost cracked a smile at the look on Sweden's face. Sweden had this mild grimace frozen on his face with the fork halfway up to his mouth. That, or Sweden was just bothered by being in Denmark's house. Denmark's house—a large, old house in downtown Copenhagen— was relatively clean, and the clutter was not terrible. His house did look very lived in, however, with his usual coat slung over a chair on the foyer, and soccer cleats on the kitchen counter. If all had gone according to plan, they'd still be at Sweden's house on his invitation, but Denmark dragged them to Copenhagen because he wanted to ride a bike…and other stuff too. He promised it would only be for a day, and then they'd return to Sweden. Norway and Finland were surprised to see that Sweden did not resist Denmark's idiotic whim, and simply agreed.

"What is your opinion of bike riding? Let's start with you, Finland."

"Bike riding?" Finland smiled curiously. "Well, it's a great way to save energy and good exercise. But personally, I don't like it much. I fell one time and broke my arm. Since then, I kind of stray away from bikes. Remember that, Sweden?"

"'Course." Sweden muttered. That was a most unfortunate occasion. Sweden nearly sawed his thumb off while making a table when he heard the screaming from outside. He honestly thought that Finland was being stabbed to death. Upon running outside, he saw no blood, instead, Finland's arm twisted grotesquely. Sweden was typically resistant to nausea-inducing phenomena, but the memory of that arm elicited mild queasiness within him.

"I also have a scar on my arm from the surgery." Finland said cheerfully, rolling up his sleeve. He pointed to a long, jagged slash that ran up from the middle of his forearm to his elbow.

"Well, you probably fell because you had no idea what you were doing." Denmark said flatly, dropping all pretense. "Biking is like the easiest thing ever, I mean come on. I practically invented cycling."

Finland appeared to be somewhat offended, but said nothing more and exchanged a glance with Sweden, who inconspicuously rolled his eyes.

"Next—Norway." Denmark pointed to Norway.

"I am indifferent to cycling." Norway said blankly. Norway didn't really care. He never did. Norway wasn't lazy, but he wasn't inclined to do physical activity for the fun of it. In fact, there was nothing fun about exercise. The sweat, the pain, the feeling of your own breath cutting your lungs up from the inside.

"Then you have problems." Denmark snapped. "What about you, Iceland?"

"It's fun to go down hills." Iceland said with a shrug. Denmark was giving him a bright blue, expectant stare, so Iceland decided to make up some stuff to appease Denmark. "And it's relaxing, I think. Also, it's a convenient way to get to places if you're too lazy to drive."

"Or, in your case, can't drive by law." Norway added.

"I agree, Iceland!" Denmark exclaimed, pounding a fist on the table. Sweden cleared his throat loudly in offense, but Denmark did not notice. "Biking is great. I love it, man. Sweden! Enlighten us with your opinion."

"'T's fine." Sweden grunted. He reflexively adjusted his glasses. "Fun 'n nice weather."

"Ah, define 'nice weather'." Denmark pressed, intrigued. He leaned forward, eyes narrowing very slightly.

"No precip'tation." Sweden said mechanically, as if it was obvious. It was. For emphasis, he pointed to the window. Past the glass was a warm, setting sun.

"Yes, yes." Denmark nodded spastically, and shoved a forkful of dinner in his mouth. He nearly choked; almost half of his plate was in his mouth right now. Nobody paid attention to his coughing. Norway casually raised the topic of global warming—a big mistake that locked Iceland and Sweden in a fierce debate (stalemate) while Denmark recovered from his near death experience. Finland excused himself from the table and went to go watch TV—he was missing his favorite show, and while he respected Sweden, debates were not to Finland's particular liking. Norway sat there, watching his brother attack Sweden. Sweden countered masterfully, flinging questions at Iceland with the sole intention of bringing him down. Norway actually had no idea what they were talking about, even though he was the one that brought the topic up. The two accents clashing killed his concentration.

"We're going out on the town tomorrow." Denmark cut into the argument. "So yeah, if you don't bike ride, you'll look like a loser. But that's not my problem, right? Anyway—you people better be outside at noon, ready to go, or else."

Denmark then decided he had to go to a party at his friend's house, and left the other four Nordics in his house alone.

"He fails at being a host." Finland observed, stifling a yawn. He was a bit bored. There were no Finnish channels on Danish television, and because Finnish is the language that is the most different of the other Nordic languages (it wasn't even considered a Norse language-Fenno-Urgic), mutual intelligibility was nonexistent. Finland sank deeper into the couch's plushy cushions, smiling cheerfully. At least Denmark had comfortable furniture.

"It's Denmark. Did you expect anything else?" Norway muttered mutinously, sitting between Sweden and Iceland on the couch. "Sweden, why did you let him drag us here?"

"P'ntless t' argue with 'im." Sweden replied.

"I hate Denmark."

"Which one?" Finland asked with a bashful chuckle.

"Both." Norway said coolly. "Iceland, are you awake?"

"Yeah." Iceland replied distractedly. He actually wanted to sleep, but Denmark hadn't mentioned anything about guest rooms or sleeping arrangements. He was at party, meaning he wouldn't come back until around four in the morning. And so, Iceland spent a very uncomfortable night on the floor.

It was sunny day in Copenhagen. Even before the five of them walked deeper into the city, Sweden had no intention of sticking to Denmark, so he was 'separated' from him. Sweden actually had an alibi that he spent an hour conjuring last night if Denmark demanded an explanation as to why he deviated from the group. Sweden planned to pull the "I was distracted by a store" card. Finland approved of this plan—he was a bit hurt by Denmark's rude comment about his lack of cycling skills, and tagged along with Sweden, leaving Norway and Iceland with Denmark…again. Denmark, of course, forced Norway and Iceland to rent bikes—he even went so far as to pay for them, which was a charitable act from him. As expected, Norway politely declined, but he found himself gripping the handlebars of a bike within five minutes. It was to silence Denmark, who was firing threats at him if he didn't cycle. Norway nearly ran into people a few times with the bike because he was distracted by the scenery of Copenhagen and his own thoughts. Meanwhile, Iceland was having no problem navigating the streets. Instead, he encountered the challenge of dealing with Denmark's erratic cycling. He ignored traffic laws, wove through crowds, and ignored the pleas of his common sense, particularly when he spotted a group of pretty women across the street. Denmark, ever the ladykiller, had to show off in a most flamboyant fashion. After a few winks and sexy hair tousling he did to himself, he succeeded in catching their attention, and Denmark decided to dazzle the girls with his mad biking skills. Because he was Danish, he was a biking pro, especially after riding around Copenhagen for years. In that attempt of doing whatever he was doing with the bike (Norway mentioned to Iceland that it looked like Denmark was riding a rogue bull, which drew an amused snort from Iceland), something went wrong, and Denmark flipped over as the bike slipped out from under him. With a smack, he unceremoniously landed on his back. Iceland winced at the sheer shock on Denmark's face when he couldn't breathe, having had the air knocked out of him by an unfortunate fall on concrete. Upon seeing Denmark's suffering, albeit temporary suffering, a loud "HA!" escaped from Norway, who succumbed to quiet, yet uncontrollable laughter shortly after. The juice he had been drinking dribbled down his chin and stained his uniform as he shook with genuine laughter. Iceland eyed his older brother curiously. He had never seen Norway like this. Norway was about to fall on the street, weakened by mirth and the so called hilarity of the situation. Tears were brimming in his eyes, as he leaned back and forth clutching his stomach. His laugh had gone silent, as he was out of breath. He was attracting stares from bystanders. Iceland, feeling increasingly awkward, prodded his brother in the shoulder.

"Ah…Norway?" he said softly. "It's not that funny."

Denmark was now on hands and knees, coughing and gasping for breath at the same time. He groaned as he stood to full height, placing a hand on his back. He gingerly bent over and pulled the bike upright, leaning heavily on it.

"Really, Norway? Are you serious right now?" Denmark demanded, agitated. His eyes were wide and he was waving his arms around helplessly.

"I'd say he's anything but serious right now, Denmark." Iceland said, pointing at Norway, whose attempts to stop smiling were futile. "As you can see, he finds your predicament hilarious."

Norway was still grinning, and while his laughter had faded he was working on catching his breath. Denmark was not amused—he stared at Norway with a remarkably blank look in his eye. Norway turned on his heel and began walking down the street with a spring in his step. Iceland tagged along and Denmark limped after them. Oh, he was going to get back at Norway. When the pain stopped. His self esteem was smarting.

"Where'd Sweden and Finland go?" Denmark asked hoarsely, limping in step with Iceland and Norway. Norway put a hand over his mouth to hide an ill suppressed smirk. Iceland took note of this, and found himself a little unnerved— Norway had a childishly sadistic side to him. The look of pure glee on his face at observing Denmark's misery would forever remain in mind. Tears shimmering in cadet blue eyes, pallid cheeks lit up with cheerful flush, smile of straight, white teeth exposed to all in a jubilant smile. That was all gone. Norway was now straight faced, eyelids falling over his dull eyes, giving him a lackadaisical appearance. He was pale again. What a transformation. Iceland was relieved to have Denmark hobbling between them, unsteady on his shaking legs.

"Sweden and Finland should be around here somewhere," Iceland said thoughtfully. He spotted them standing by a lamppost. Sweden was rifling through the cash in his wallet, frowning, and Iceland was popping morsels of salmiakki in his mouth, watching the natives and observing the new surroundings. Iceland didn't like salmiakki too much. He could tolerate one or two pieces, but that was it. Finland devoured salmiakki in nauseating amounts, and Iceland wondered how his stomach could digest tar. Finland was probably humming a cheery song as he chewed on the taste of death. The thought of salmiakki brought bad memories to Iceland. When he was younger, he was nearly as obsessed with salmiakki as Finland. But one day, he ate too much, and his stomach did not take that well. At all. Iceland shuddered. The taste on its way out was three times as vile.

"Ugh, Norway, I think I'm going to die." Denmark said with a tremulous laugh. He wiped sweat from his brow and took a shallow breath. Norway eyed Denmark curiously, scowling. He looked up as seagulls flew overhead against the markedly blue sky. Looking around at the buildings painted in bright colors, standing next to each other, Iceland was reminded of cakes and other flavorful pastries. Boats floated upon the smooth waters in the canals. He was reminded a little of Reykjavik, but the reminder was not strong enough to tug at his heartstrings to make him miss Iceland. He did miss the peace quiet of solitude, but all would be calm upon returning to Sweden.

"Are you in that much pain?" Norway questioned.

"It feels more like my guts are writhing around inside me." Denmark explained. "Hella uncomfortable. Want to feel what it's like? I can throw you on the ground right now."

"No, thank you." Norway said coolly. The skin around his eyes tightened. Without another word, he rode ahead of Denmark, heading toward Sweden and Finland, but Iceland stayed behind, watching Denmark, who looked like he was about to keel over. He walking his bike, looking agonized. The smile he forced on his face wavered between a baring of teeth and an actual smile, tremulous as the legs he stood on.

"Um…are you alright?" Iceland asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Y-Yeah." Denmark forced a laugh and mounted his bicycle, speeding ahead of Iceland and crossing the street (he was nearly slammed by a car) to rendezvous with Finland, Sweden, and Norway. Iceland was more civil and followed traffic laws, and Norway was watching him the whole time as he crossed the street. This immediately brought Iceland an uneasy feeling.

"I hope Denmark serves as a lesson to you." Norway said with a nod. "That idiot was nearly killed. You saw it, right?"

"Well, I just saw him almost become roadkill. But also I saw the time he fell of his bike. Does that count, too?" Iceland took note of Norway's reaction. He pressed his lips tightly together to stop a smile, but he saw the corners of his mouth curve upward a bit.

"Yes." Norway agreed. He glanced at Denmark, leaning on Sweden for support. Sweden was still counting his money, and Finland was patting Denmark on the back, offering salmiakki.

"Ew." Iceland murmured.

"Do you not like salmiakki?" Norway questioned. "I thought you did."

"I used to love it. Now I don't." Iceland said. A look of understanding passed over Norway's typically expressionless countenance.

"Hm— I remember that day." Norway said tersely.

"Don't remind me." Iceland said. The memory made him feel queasy.

The bikes were returned to their rental racks and the five of them trekked back to Denmark's house. Denmark had made a recovery, though he still walked awkwardly and complained about a headache. Iceland gave Sweden and Finland a fairly detailed description of Iceland's wipeout. Finland didn't laugh, but there was a glint of happiness in his pale eyes when Iceland described the incident to them. Sweden almost smiled, but his eyes narrowed in a most devious fashion upon hearing Iceland's account of Denmark's epic failure.

"Didja by any ch'nce get t' see the' ladies' reactions?" Sweden inquired. At this point, Denmark made a "Hmph!" noise and decided to obstinately look somewhere else.

"No." Iceland shook his head. However, that would've been an interesting thing to see. Especially after all that hair-tousling, winking, and other seductive actions done shamelessly on Denmark's part.

"I did." Norway put in. Sweden and Finland both turned to look at him, spark of intrigue lighting their eyes up.

"Is that why you were laughing so hard?" Iceland asked. He truly wondered what made Iceland laugh so uncontrollably. It was a reserved laughing frenzy—Norway was not physically able to reach the Denmark's level of hysteria Iceland had witnessed two days ago upon mentioning his interest in tattoos, with the hyena laughter and the rolling around on the ground like a dog, or a turtle flipped on its back.

"No, it was Denmark's fall." Norway said blankly. "But the girls had a similar reaction to me."

"Norway, your reaction was little uncalled for." Finland said with a baffled smile. "Nobody could've reacted that way except you…which is worrisome."

"Fine." Norway snorted. "Two of them gasped and appeared to foster worry for Denmark, and the other two lost interest and left."

"Norge's a bit sadistic, 't seems." Sweden remarked, flashing Norway one of his rare smiles. Finland nodded in agreement. Iceland gave a diffident little smile—he wasn't exactly thrilled to find out that his brother had a trait of sadism that was shared by Russia. As for Norway, he maintained a cool demeanor, not denying or verifying Sweden's observation with either a word or gesture. Denmark was burning up with humiliation, but just kept his mouth shut for once—anything he said would be used against him. Denmark's silence put Sweden in a noticeably better mood, to the point where Finland noticed a new energy to Sweden's strides. Finland himself was little pleased with Denmark's epic failure. After that comment Denmark made, he couldn't help but feel that Denmark wholly deserved it, even though Finland had inwardly forgiven him. Regardless, the five took the short flight back to Stockholm, and within three hours they were situated comfortably in Sweden's tranquil countryside cottage.

* * *

Despite the many salmiakki horror stories I've heard, I still want to try it.

One of my reviews pointed out that I referred to salmiakki as tar. I'm aware there's no tar in it. I meant it figuratively, lol. But he/she was helpful in giving corrections.

Leave me a review.


	3. Lifejackets

Chapter 3: Stroke, Stroke, Stroke

* * *

Iceland found himself sitting on a small boat that bounced cheerily among the choppy waters of the Baltic Sea, sitting next to Denmark, who had a beer in hand and was enjoying the gloriously sunny day. Sweden was comfortable, gazing at the waters with a familiar gleam to his eye. He'd navigated these waters for thousands of years. However, it was Norway that knew the northern oceans better than any map. Although Norway absolutely loved the ocean, he was insistent on hiding the smile that spread on his face as the boat soared over dark blue water. Maritime wind lifted his soft, wavy blond hair from the side of his face. But before they had stepped on Norway's boat—Norway decided that traveling to Oslo was top priority for sailing as soon as their time as visitors at Sweden's house expired—Finland raised an important subject: lifejackets.

"Lifejackets?" Norway raised an eyebrow. "We didn't have life jackets when we were Vikings, did we, Sweden?"

"'Course not." Sweden said stonily. He remembered being mercilessly thrown about in the boat by a violent swell on the tempestuous seas he navigated. Once or twice…no, many more than that, he had almost been knocked out of the boat. Norway could confirm that. He himself had, indeed, been thrown out of a boat by cruel, resentful waves. It was a near death experience, but now that Norway remembered that fearful moment, it was a very exciting one that coaxed his adrenaline out of hibernation.

"W-Well, I'd like to point out that you two are excellent swimmers…" Finland said nervously. That was true—Sweden, Norway, and even Denmark swam very well, with distinctly powerful strokes and efficient breathing techniques.

"Don't worry, Finland." Denmark gave Finland a hearty pat on the back, huge grin gleaming in warm the sunlight. "Lifejackets are for pansies. I'll save you if anything happens. I'm a pro at all this Viking stuff, believe me." To emphasize his point, Denmark added a charming wink.

"I know that…but still." Finland said diffidently, stepping onto the boat.

And so the escapade began.

Denmark busted out the beer three minutes onto the ocean and sipped it while reminiscing about the good old Viking ages with Sweden and Norway. Norway was the designated captain of the boat, but he wasn't paying attention to where they were going—he didn't need to. Finland and Iceland listened, utterly fascinated, with the tales the three had to offer. Denmark always had riveting stories to tell, and whether they were from three days ago or a thousand years ago they were always fresh and exciting. Iceland privately thought that Denmark had the potential to become a wildly popular author. Write under an alias and give a recount of his times as an epic Viking in stunning detail.

"Yeah, this one time I was attacked by a huge ass…" Denmark frowned and waved his hands around, searching for the word. "Well, I don't even know what to call it."

"Grendel?" Iceland offered. Finland caught the reference and laughed.

"Nah, worse than him. It was a fish, four times the sizes of man, with claws and razor sharp teeth. He attacked my boat but I carved his eyes out with my axe as he tossed us around. The sea turned red- and I mean crimson red, a wondrous shade of red- and I never saw him again."

"Good work." Sweden said with a sincere nod. He was uncannily familiar with the nuisances that were encountered in the Atlantic Ocean. However, Norway was the one that had a tome of odd tales and experiences from his Viking days tucked away in his mind. He had faced the strongest, strangest monsters, seen the deaths of hundreds, and ruled the seas from his place at the bow of his boat, sword in hand. Iceland privately thought that was the main reason he was impossible to faze.

As Iceland studied the three, it was difficult to believe they were once Vikings. Norway sat primly with his legs crossed, uniform spotless and pressed, not one blond hair out of place. Sweden had a tidy, short haircut, with stylish glasses perched on his nose. Even Denmark, "King of Northern Europe", looked too clean cut to have been a Viking, with that smile of straight white teeth (thanks to four years of braces) and glowing face. Iceland tried to picture them with long, scraggly beards and giant, rippling muscles. The thought of Sweden with a beard made him snort with amusement, earning him a few looks from the others. But now that Iceland thought about it, Norway as a Viking was just as neat as he was today. Then again, he was too young to remember much at all. He did remember one bit, though, but it was a memory faded to the point where Iceland wondered if it really happened. It was a freezing day what would soon become Reykjavik. Iceland recalled being snuggled by Norway, who had tucked him under a thick, impermeable cloak, and held the trembling Iceland close to his warm body. Iceland wondered if Norway remembered, too, or if it had all been some feverish dream. Oh, but of course Iceland was not even going to ask.

"Man, we were epic." Denmark said with a content sigh. He took a long swig from his beer. "What happened to us?"

"Common sense on humanity's part." Norway muttered.

"Modernization." Sweden answered.

Denmark shrugged and finished his beer, sighing once again. Those were acceptable answers.

"It's nice to be one hundred percent civilized." Sweden said.

"I like being in one place." Norway said. He meant it very loosely—Norway was frequently up north by the fjords or boating alone. While he tried to stay in Norway, Denmark often dragged him to Copenhagen, forcing him to visit. Norway obliged because it opened up infinite opportunities to subtly tease and insult Denmark. Most insults passed right over him, which brought a wonderful thrill to him—that is, seeing Denmark's idiocy in action. However, Denmark couldn't exactly agree with that statement. He liked to travel all over central Europe, hunting for nightlife and clubbing, especially during the weekends. Denmark, even when residing in Copenhagen, spent very little time at his house. He was typically seen out and about on his bike, viewing the sea, visiting old friends (literally—he was friends with a ninety five year old man that he met during the crisis of World War Two), or hanging out at cafes and flirting harmlessly with pretty Danish women. As for Finland, Finland was usually seen roaming around Helsinki and mingling with the locals or visiting his best friend, Estonia, in Tallinn. Sweden typically limited himself to Stockholm, where he lived in a modern, tasteful house. However, he allowed himself pleasant getaways to the countryside once in a while. Iceland was highly skilled at ostracizing himself from humanity, which is what he normally did back home. Once a week he'd make a quick trip to the inner city…if he felt like it. Iceland rarely ran out of things to do in his house. He could play video games, read, browse the internet, daydream, walk around outside with his puffin buddy, daydream some more, draw, write, do a puzzle…it was common for him to discover new crevices in his large house that prompted his imagination to start forming a scenario as to why such a room was hidden in the first place.

"What was the worst part about being a Viking?" Finland asked, tilting his head to the side with curiosity. Denmark and Sweden exchanged glances with Norway, as if they were telepathically agreeing on the negative parts of sailing the seas.

"Cloudy nights." Norway said. Sweden and Denmark nodded in agreement. "It's difficult to see the North Star and distinct cloud formations when it's cloudy. That's what I mainly navigated by."

"The best part is all the fighting!" Denmark said enthusiastically, finishing his _second _beer. He owned anyone and everyone with that massive axe. Despite its size, Denmark managed it like it was extension of his arm, with grace and elegance. "And exploring the new land, the exhilarating feeling of claiming what's yours. But about the battles—I was slashed in the side one time by this one guy. I still have the scar." Denmark lifted his shirt and pointed to a thick, knotted scar that arced neatly inches under his last rib, running from back to front and highly conspicuous. "I lived, but barely. It got infected and I didn't walk for two weeks. I'm pretty sure I was in a coma for the first week. My right hand man had my burial prepped." Denmark hardly remembered anything from the first ungodly week- all he recalled were feverish dreams, blood, and pus that seeped from the festering wound. Fever induced delirium rendered him oblivious to the otherwise unbearable pain.

"An' the North Atlantic's brutal." Sweden put in. "'Course, our boats were made f'r that. But the sea was so vicious 't seemed alive." He remembered a time when a fellow shipmate was picked up by a wave as it if had fingers, claws; and swept off the boat, never to be seen again. Sweden had almost been a victim of that a few times.

"The sea was alive." Denmark said in all seriousness, blue eyes glinting ominously. "This sea right now is not the one we sailed. See how calm it is?"

"It's ridiculously calm." Norway said, rare conviction and disgust tingeing his voice.

Iceland wanted to object—the sea was choppy today, roused by the wind. The boat he was in pitched and rolled, not to the point of severe discomfort, but to the point where Iceland was beginning to feel the effects of the rocking in his head. A headache had begun to present itself. Naturally, neither of Vikings noticed. Denmark was still a bit irked with the sea's quiescence, and wanted to smack the water to roil it further, to anger it enough for the sea to respond. He wanted the boat to become airborne with violent waves, to get a bit of a rush of excitement in his blood as his stomach leaped with the boat.

"I think it's because you three are so used to the sea that you don't notice it anymore." Iceland said reasonably. Denmark raised an eyebrow and studied Iceland critically before grunting noncommittally and glancing at his fellow former Vikings, once again having a telepathic conversation.

"Could be." Sweden murmured.

"Iceland may be right." Norway said with an indecipherable scowl. He paused to look out at the horizon, deep blue sky against the dark waters, waves topping with chalky white seafoam. Sweden leaned over the starboard and dipped a few fingers in the sea. It was warm today, about eighteen degrees Celsius or sixty five degrees Fahrenheit. That was…a satisfactory temperature. Perhaps slightly nippy.

"Guys, not going to lie, it's really choppy today." Finland said tensely. Denmark pulled Finland into a friendly noogie, laughing at Finland's puerile, inane comment.

"Y' think?" Sweden said, resting his arms on the starboard rail. He too disagreed. The ocean was on Valium today.

"Yeah. The boat's not going to flip, is it?" Finland asked. He gazed fixedly at the hazy shore far, far, away, a sad look to his eye if wishing they were closer so he could enjoy flat land.

"Nah." Denmark said. He was almost choking poor Finland. Denmark opened up a sixth beer and offered some to Finland. His intentions were good, but Finland politely declined. He wasn't a fan of beer. But vodka, on the other hand…Finland was quite fond of it, even if it left him with a crippling hangover the next day. He wondered if Denmark was even capable of getting a hangover. He was on his sixth beer at the moment, and showed no signs of intoxication. But this was to be expected from someone with titanic alcohol tolerance.

"Hypothetical question—if we flip, then what do we do?" Finland inquired. "None of us are wearing lifejackets."

"Chill out already! Do you want me to flip the boat over? Because I can do that." Denmark said fiercely, rolling his eyes. The boat's size—a very small motorsailer—would make it quite easy to capsize. Change the position of the sail and place all the weight on one side. Norway would probably be able to explain the physics of such a phenomenon.

"Mmhmm." Norway responded absentmindedly.

"Seriously!" Finland insisted, flailing his arms about. "I have a feeling we're going to capsize. Are we supposed to swim to shore or what?"

"No, we float in the ocean until a shark eats us." Denmark said with scathing sarcasm. "If it capsizes, we pull it back up. There's a little thingy on the bottom called a keel that Norway can stand on, which will flip the boat upright. Plus, we're not going to capsize. So have a beer and be quiet."

Iceland then noticed something. The waves were rough, rocking the boat from side to side enthusiastically. Four people were sitting on one side, now that Norway had relocated next to Finland because he liked the view better there, leaving Iceland alone on the opposite side of the boat. Iceland had noticed a bit of tipping with the weight of the others, just enough to stand out among the pitching, rolling, and rocking of the old, tiny boat. The Vikings hadn't noticed—they continued to dazzle Finland with stories. Upon glancing at the sails, wonder sparked within Iceland. What would happen if the boat did capsize…? The sails were full and taut with the maritime wind. Surreptitiously, Iceland decided to take a seat next to Sweden, placing all of the weight on one side of the boat. The boat tipped further, but Finland was so enthralled he didn't notice the sea getting closer and closer, waves spraying him. Norway was reading a book, heedless to the ocean nearby. Denmark and Sweden were exchanging adventures, also ignoring or immune to the tipping. Meanwhile, Iceland was smiled naughtily like a mischievous little boy. That smile was gone the second he was dunked in frigid, brackish water. Upon coming up for air among the tough waves, his stomach sank to see that Sweden, Norway and Denmark had foreseen the capsize, and were nice and dry, holding on to the opposite side of the boat.

"Not to worry!" Denmark called out with a hearty laugh. He swung a long, muscular leg over the side of the boat in unison with Norway. Meanwhile, Sweden was deftly undoing the strings of the sailboat, loosening the sails so that they floated among the sapphire waves. Not a word was exchanged between the three of them. The boat rested on its side, but the problem was duly solved by Norway and Denmark, who placed their weight on the protrusive keel and flipped the boat upright, vaulting over the rail lithely as the boat was righted. Sweden, in this process, had timed his letting go of the rail so that he landed firmly on the floor of the boat as it was righted. Iceland gaped at them. It took less than twenty seconds and they were dry as they had been before the capsize. Not only that, the three of them had performed the procedure with masterful skill and lissome grace. Had they really been Vikings? Iceland couldn't put the words Viking and graceful in one sentence.

Sweden easily pulled Finland out of the water, whose violet eyes were wide and unblinking as his teeth chattered. Iceland didn't even notice his brother's gloved hand thrust in his face, in a gesture to pull Iceland back on the boat, because he was awed by their skill. Iceland felt envy thrum within him, but at the same time he wanted to learn to sail and right a boat. He grabbed Norway's warm hand, and in a single, fluid motion, Iceland was sitting down comfortably (but freezing) on the side. At once, Norway busied himself with raising sails and steering in the direction of land.

"…And that's how you right a capsized boat!" Denmark laughed. Finland didn't, instead, he lowered dangerously at Denmark.

"It's cold." He said thickly. Sweden shed his jacket and wrapped it around Finland's shoulders. Denmark and Norway followed suit, but Denmark, instead of wrapping it around Finland's shaking shoulders, laced it tightly around his neck. Once again, Finland was nearly asphyxiated by Denmark.

"Another thing I learned as a Viking. The neck is the weak spot for weapons and weather." Denmark said, wagging a finger. Sweden nodded in agreement. Iceland then noticed Norway giving Iceland a cadet blue stare through narrowed eyes.

"This won't do." He said. Norway's eyebrow quirked downward in disapproval. He too removed his jacket and tossed it to Iceland. "Put that on and fold your arms against your chest. I will find you clothing once we are back on land."

The sails were adjusted and they were propelled back to shore, soaring over the waves. Denmark got his share of boat leaps on the way back to the dock, as the choppy water had broken into rough waves the set the boat into a arrhythmic, up and down motion. At one point, Denmark had timed his own jumps with the random pitches of the boat, catapulting him higher into the air. Each time the boat gave an unpleasant roll, Finland forced a nervous laugh. Norway was watching the fluffy, fast moving clouds overhead, distant.

"How are you feeling?" Norway asked Iceland out of the blue.

"Fine." Cold, but other than that, Iceland felt refreshed. "This is fun."

That remark elicited a flicker of enthusiasm to light Norway's dull eyes. He gave what Iceland thought was a highly reserved, restrained smile. Norway brushed hair out of his eyes and gazed fixedly at Iceland, prompting him to elaborate. Iceland hated it when Norway did this…he felt like he was in a classroom.

"It's exciting. And the water is pretty. Also, it's fun to go fast." Iceland felt his bullshit answer wouldn't pass, since Norway is the critical, judgmental type, but Norway gave a stern nod in agreement.

"Any time you'd like to visit me we can sail." Norway offered.

Iceland tried to smile, but he gave up, as it felt too awkward. He appreciated the offer, but coming from Norway, who was mysterious and vaguer than an equivocator, Iceland didn't exactly know how to react. Or accept the offer.

"Um, sure." Iceland replied. That would suffice. "That'd be cool."

Iceland liked Norway, he really did—the landmass, at least. It was comfortable and the weather was nice. The greenery was aesthetically pleasing too. However, being around his brother still sent spasms of tension down Iceland's spine. Realistically speaking, he didn't need to feel ill at ease around his brother. They were on good terms but lacked the glue that held a sibling together, which caused Iceland to balk at the idea of socializing or even be seen in public with his big brother, especially since the two had spent many years apart while Norway raided the seven seas and claimed continents as his own during the crux of the Viking Ages. That, and Iceland knew very little about Norway. He knew his birthday was about two weeks ago and his age, but that was about it. Iceland couldn't say anything for sure about him. It was safe to say that Norway loved the ocean, or at least sailing, but Iceland wouldn't make any deductions. He wanted to hear Norway say it explicitly.

"I love the ocean." Norway said impassively, gazing at the waters, having the appearance of severely wrinkled blue silk with a romantic luster to his eye. Well, speak of the devil. Another thing that decreased Norway's credibility was the fact he spoke in a markedly jaded drawl. It was impossible to take his words to heart when he spoke of something he liked as if he were about to fall asleep.

"I like it too." Iceland replied.

Once on shore, they trekked to Norway's house. His house was on a green hill, overlooking the sea. Iceland thought his house smelled like laundry detergent and paper. It was light, pleasant scent. Norway told them to wait in the foyer while he fetched dry clothing for Iceland and Finland. Norway's home was very orderly and strangely inviting, compared to his personality. Denmark was already raiding Norway's pantry, rummaging through tasty Norwegian goodies. Norway returned, holding neatly folded clothing for both of them. For Iceland, he had navy slacks and a white dress shirt. For Finland, he brought a dark blue dress shirt and khaki slacks. Iceland was beginning to notice a color scheme here. Norway himself was wearing all blue. Varying shades of blue were present in Norway's house as well. Iceland chastised himself for being so childish- he had a bad habit of snooping around houses. For some particular reason, he was attentive to the minor details of a person's house, such as smell, decorations, scuffs on the floor, and even temperature. His tendency was to notice these minor details and feed them to his imagination, which would run wild and create a scenario. If Norway hadn't been so firm in telling them to stay in the foyer, Iceland would've wandered upstairs by now and taken a peek in every room.

Denmark soon reappeared, feasting on some candies he found lying around. He spotted the bundle of clean, dry clothes in the arms of Iceland and Finland. The clothing would be a fit incorrectly, due to Norway's height in comparison to the heights of Finland and Norway. Finland was stockier than Norway, who was slimmer and had about four or five inches of height on him. Iceland resembled Norway in figure, and was not much shorter than him.

"What about underwear?" Denmark sniggered. That classic look of Denmark-smugness was plastered all over his face. He waggled his eyebrows at Norway and shifted his gaze to Sweden, who looked deadpan as always. He and Norway were too mature to even smile at the situation that Denmark clearly found hilarious. Denmark didn't find it as funny as he found it a perfect opportunity to tease his best friend.

"That's their problem." Norway said coldly, unfazed by Denmark's remark. He pointed vaguely down the corridor and said, "Bathroom is down the hall." Norway drew breath to speak but then cut himself off. He paused, deliberating, making a decision hidden behind those guarded blue eyes. He almost grimaced, and then forced out the words "Go ahead and make yourselves comfortable. You may stay one night."

"They'll need underwear then, am I right?" Denmark said, smirking.

"_Fine_." Norway harrumphed, shooting an irritated look Denmark's way. Denmark replied with a goofy, radiant smile and made a move to scamper off to the living room to catch some cheesy Norwegian TV shows— but before he did so, he turned to Norway and popped the most important question of the night.

"Great, so when's dinner?" Denmark inquired, grinning widely as he kicked off his shoes. Norway winced as if he had been stabbed by ten needles of various calibers as Denmark's heavy black boots slammed into his wall. Denmark was oblivious to his faux pas and watched Norway expectantly rocking back and forth with pent up energy on his socked feet. Sweden and Norway scowled at his blatantly mismatched socks with great disapproval.

Denmark's inquiry made Norway realize how overly generous and idealistic his offer was, and the cruel reality that Norway couldn't stuff those words back in his mouth dawned on him. With a heavy sigh, he lumbered to the kitchen with Denmark and Sweden trailing behind.

* * *

I've never been on a sailboat...I kind of want to, though. But I hate boats.

BAWWW I miss the ocean.

Of course, reviews are always appreciated.


	4. Cars

Chapter 4: Grand Theft Auto

* * *

That night, a storm blew in from the south, with cold air, heavy rains, and gusts of wind in tow. Rain pattered the windows like the bullets of a machine gun, and drops seared across the glass as blinding lightning lit the house through the window. The five Nordics lounged in Norway's living room, watching some low-budget Norwegian soap opera. Sweden was seated in a comfortable armchair, eyes glazed over. Denmark was sprawled all over the couch and Norway was sitting as far away from him as possible on that same sofa. Finland, ever the down to earth one, was peacefully sitting on the floor. Iceland had the loveseat to himself, and he was happy to stretch his legs out. He was at least comfortable while he tried to watch this dumb soap opera. The women weren't particularly pretty, either, and the acting was abysmal. Then again, soap operas like that existed in his homeland. While Norway, Denmark, and Sweden watched (repressing yawns), and Iceland and Finland, who didn't understand a word, were capturing the gist of the soap with the incessant comments Denmark spewed about the cliché plot. "Wait, so she is pregnant with her boss' baby but her husband and her other boyfriend think it's theirs? This is stupid" followed by "Oh, she's actually cute" or "Ha, douche". They were the incarnations of manliness at that exact moment, riveted by the plot (or lack thereof) that belonged to this cheap soap opera. Their entertainment was cut short as they were plunged into sudden pitch by an unpredictable and unforeseen power outage brought on by the violent storm.

"Power's out." Iceland observed.

"Duh." Denmark said with a dramatic eye roll. He turned to the calm, deadpan host and asked, "Now what?"

"Denmark, I just thought—do you know how to drive?" Finland asked brightly. An awkward, markedly tense silence ensued Finland's innocuous question. Denmark gave him an indecipherable, slightly tense look before running a hand through his hair as he constructed an answer.

"Technically. I mean, I almost invented driving."

"'Techinc'lly?'" Sweden repeated, raising an eyebrow slightly.

"I thought it was cycling that you invented." Norway pointed out in a mocking tone. Denmark winked at him for no apparent reason. Norway, accustomed to these antics, ignored him.

"That too. Anyway, yeah, I know _how _to drive. It's a cinch." Denmark gave a hoot of condescending laughter and waved a hand in the air. "But I don't have my license. I don't need it. I've got bikes and buses to take me everywhere I need to go. Plus, driving is boring."

"How'd y' know th't?" Sweden prompted, gazing at Denmark blankly.

"Driving has the effect of a narcotic." Denmark said flatly. "I would know. I'm friends with Netherlands."

"How'd y' know if y've never driven?" Sweden repeated, this time with more force.

"I have!" Denmark said defensively. "As I said, I invented driving."

"'F you invented it, then why don't you 'ave a license?" Sweden pressed. Denmark was beginning to crack, but he returned Sweden's gaze with a highly offended glower.

"Because I live in Copenhagen." Denmark snapped. "That license would be as useful as…a broken condom."

Norway scoffed and waved a hand repeatedly, but in a graceful, restrained manner that dismissed Denmark. Finland groaned at the comparison and Sweden didn't react. It was too adolescent to be funny or worth acknowledging. Therefore, Sweden let the simile pass right over him.

"Bad comparison— and I disagree. A driver's license is free and a basic necessity." Norway said impassively. "I'd say that you have absolutely no idea how to drive. Am I right?"

Denmark's bulbous, balloon-like ego had been deflated by Norway's astute observation. Following the ego deflation was the physical deflation, marked by Denmark slumping against the cushions of the couch and letting his face fall into a pitiful pout. Regardless, he gave the four of them a loathing, intimidating lower. Norway was correct. Denmark had never even been in the driver's seat before. His hand hadn't touched a steering wheel. Denmark remained unconvinced that a driver's license was necessary because he had public transportation at his disposal and possessed a natural pair of hardy, muscular legs to carry him everywhere he needed to go. Plus, he enjoyed the exercise and the feeling of accomplishment that welled up inside him when he completed a walk to the other side of the city. It was such a grand feeling that he often rewarded himself with a drink or twenty, usually the latter.

"Yeah." Denmark said begrudgingly. "Do you have a problem with that?"

"Oh, then we have to teach you how." Finland said brightly. From his pocket, he withdrew a stiff, rectangular piece of plastic and thrust it into Denmark's hands. It was Finland's driver's license, featuring an elated, smiling Finland and more info that Denmark didn't care about or already knew. He flung it back at Finland, hitting Finland squarely in the chest. Finland fumbled for the card and caught it between his fingers.

"Don't you want a nice picture of yourself on it?" Finland said, appealing to Denmark's narcissism. He flashed his EU driver's license once again before pocketing it, and it caught the light from the lightning that flickered outside. A gleam erupted on the license for a quarter second.

"If I want to see pics of myself being awesome, I go to my Facebook." Denmark said pointedly. He gave a contemptuous snort. With over three thousand tagged pictures, he could always have something to look at if he felt like being narcissistic. Oftentimes, Denmark would wake up in the morning and think 'Today, I'm going to be narcissistic'.

"Well, having a driver's license increases awesomeness by about twenty five point seven percent." Finland said enthusiastically. "Plus, driving is fun!"

"So is cycling." Denmark snapped. Norway gave a quiet, weary sigh and absentmindedly brushed soft blond hair out of his eyes. For many, many years, Denmark had fostered an overwhelming, ardent, borderline unhealthy love for biking.

"Mmm," Finland narrowed his eyes and looked at Denmark askance, thinking of a way to phrase his loathe of bikes in a tactful, inoffensive manner. Denmark already had a gloomy stormcloud lingering above his head, and Finland wanted to avoid stirring up a tornado. So, he gave a fairly 'neutral' response: "…I beg to differ."

"As I've said before, you hate biking because you suck at it. A guy without legs could ride a bike better than you."

Finland bit his tongue to keep a snarky remark from lashing out, but gave up. Two insults from the same person simply incensed Finland. He was a generally happy person, but that didn't mean he had to take other people's crap. He'd done that with Russia too many times.

"At least I can drive." Finland said stonilyy, taking on a Norway-like tone. "Not only that, I am not drunk ninety percent of the time and in Helsinki we're civilized enough to not have to rely on cheap bikes."

Denmark's vivid azure eyes went wide.

"You take that back, or I will beat you with…" Denmark seized the TV remote and held it high over his head. "This TV remote can be shoved right into your eye socket if you'd like. I mean, I can definitely make it work. I've piled people up on my axe like a shish kebab before."

That comment actually coaxed dry laugh from Iceland, who genuinely found his comment funny, even though he was aware that his chuckled only added to the tension congealing in the space between Finland and Denmark, both on the verge of hitting incensement.

"Bluffing means nothing to me." Finland stood up, and Denmark immediately followed suit. Finland shrunk a bit as Denmark towered over him, brandishing that TV remote dangerously overhead in slow, haunting circles. Then, Denmark took a half step back, as if he had calmed down. Finland relaxed, only to hear an earsplitting smack with complementary pain that radiated in his upper arm. Finland yelped and inspected the damage at once.

"You _never _insult my homeland." Denmark spat. He flung the remote back on the table and threw his body on the couch, brooding. Finland watched in horror as a purple bruise bloomed on his upper arm, clearly visible under the white skin that had all the blood evicted from it upon receiving that almost deadly blow from the remote. Finland didn't want to relive his broken arm.

"Calm down." Norway said. An irritated scowl had presented itself on his pale countenance. If they continued to act this way he'd force all of them out in the pouring rain.

"Denmark's learning t' drive t'morrow." Sweden's verdict was final, and even Denmark was smart enough to keep his opinions and insults to himself. Because, unlike Finland, Sweden would counter with twofold force if Denmark dared to even lay a finger on him. He was _that_ type of the person, the kind of person that had many surprising personality traits sheathed by a layer of thick skin.

"I hate all of you." Denmark muttered. He caught Iceland's uneasy glance and added, "Except you, Iceland. You're a good kid. _Nothing _like your brother."

Iceland didn't really smile. Instead, he gave Denmark a questioning look. Iceland's kiss-ass detector was screaming in his head. Norway didn't even bother jumping in to defend him. A brother that didn't pick up Denmark's masked intentions was not worth caring for.

"Such a good kid, yes." Denmark said, smiling graciously. "Why don't you go get me a beer?"

"No." Iceland said, frowning. "That's your problem."

The smile fell from Denmark's face like a lead weight. With a melodramatic sigh, he rolled over on his side to face the cushion and slammed Norway off the couch with his leg. Actually, Norway leaped off the couch as soon as Denmark touched him. He saved himself an array of bruises and humiliation by foreseeing the act of hostility. Norway moseyed over to the loveseat and sat down, leaving a space of about two feet between him and Iceland. He stifled a yawn and moved his sleeve up, revealing a watch on his wrist. The time read eleven-oh-two. Norway placed his right arm on the bolster and stared blankly ahead. Sweden's eyelids were falling over his eyes, and he appeared to be extremely comfortable in the armchair, to the point where it looked like he'd never move.

"I'm going to bed." Norway said, rising from his place on the loveseat. "Rooms are upstairs."

"G'night." Sweden responded.

Denmark rolled over onto his back and muttered something under his breath is what was presumably Danish. For a moment, Iceland noticed a mischief materialize on Norway's face once he noticed Denmark was asleep, but continued out of the room and headed up the stairs. Finland followed soon after, and Sweden was eventually unconscious in the armchair and showed no signs of waking up. As for Iceland, who possessed a wacky circadian rhythm due to adolescence, decided to wander around the house. The storm smoldered outside, and the power was still out. The temperature remained stable and cool throughout the house. An eerie, still silence deafened Iceland. His footsteps sounded like whispers against the stairs, and brought a sensation of being watched every time he passed by a doorway. Now that it was nighttime, Norway's house was genuinely creepy.

The following morning, Denmark dumped himself in the front seat of Norway's navy blue sedan, eyes moving over the dials and meters on the dashboard with a vaguely scornful glint to his eye. He scoffed and folded his arms over his chest in an act of puerile indignation.

"First things first—seatbelt." Norway said from the back seat. He was strapped comfortably between Finland and Iceland and would give all directions from the back while Sweden manned the front seat, prepared to deal with an irate Denmark. Sweden plunked the keys in Denmark's open hand and gave a brusque gesture toward the ignition. Denmark mumbled something and threw a mutinous look his way before jamming the key in and jerking the ignition violent to turn the car on. Finally, Denmark put his seatbelt on. Denmark clawed at it exaggeratedly but said nothing. Norway calmly pointed to the odd stick protruding from the base of the steering wheel.

"Flick that stick up to signal left and down for right. It is compulsory to signal when turning or changing lanes." Norway instructed coolly. "You know which pedal is acceleration and brake, I presume?"

"Yeah. The one on the left is brake, the one on the right gas." He muttered. He pointed to a stick to his right and said, "This is for changing the gears."

"Right." Sweden said. "T' change the gear, put a foot firmly on th' brake and then switch 't."

"If you don't hold the brake, you'll break the transmission." Finland piped up. Finland was going to point the play on words in his previous sentence, but refrained from doing so. "Now put the car in drive. It's in park right now."

"I'm not stupid." Denmark snapped. He did as told and glanced at Sweden and Norway, eyebrows raised expectantly, awaiting more directions. He drummed his fingers on the steering while impatiently. And simply because they hadn't died yet, this was a success. It dawned on Iceland that allowing Denmark to drive for the first time with four other people in the car was a suicidal act. For a moment, panicked racked Iceland—he still had time to escape. Oddly enough, everyone else appeared to be calm and treated this as a commonplace occurrence. It was not only illegal in several ways—they could all land in prison—it was also severely suicidal.

"Put pressure on the accelerator with your right foot—" Norway said.

"Be quiet, I know what I'm doing." Denmark huffed. Typical Denmark. He was bossy and demanding by nature, so when threw orders at him he disregarded them. In this case, he didn't have much of a choice, since Norway and Sweden were in the car and both were steadfast and just as unyielding to orders as Denmark. Norway and Sweden exchanged indecipherable glances. Iceland wondered how they managed to get any points, feelings, or thoughts across with those glances. Their expressions were cadaverously mask-like and still. Not a twitch of an eyebrow or quirk of a lip was seen to allow any deductions of thoughts of feelings. Iceland's thoughts were broken by a spurt of anxiety once he noticed the car was moving.

"Stay at ten kilom'ters," Sweden said flatly. "Hold the wheel straight."

Iceland was relieved to see a focused, assiduous Denmark gazing intently at the remainder of Norway's driveway. He even adjusted the rearview mirror, and Iceland caught him glance at it several times. His eyes shone like blue diamonds in the brilliant morning light. All was silent except for the gentle rumble of the engine. Sweden lifted an arm to correct Denmark's steering, but quickly set it back in his lap, as Denmark corrected himself without a word. Now the real challenge was approaching. He was about to turn onto an actual road that wound all the way down the hill to the outskirts of Oslo. Denmark had the blinker on and looked at Sweden for further instruction.

"R'ght." He said, gesturing with his head. Denmark scowled slightly and appeared to be making some measurements before he checked to make sure no one was coming from either direction. Denmark made a relatively smooth turn into the right lane; however, Norway did notice he encroached into the opposite lane a little. That was a minor problem that they'd tend to later.

"Speed up to forty kilom'ters." Sweden said. "Slow t' 'bout twenty on turns."

Denmark didn't seem to mind the change in speed and remained calm. He had a firm grip of the wheel and genuine braveness for once, as opposed to the usual daring recklessness he strutted around with. A curve was approaching, and, miraculously, he heeded Sweden's advice and slowed down, making a smooth turn. Iceland let out a sigh of relief.

"Not bad." Finland said, enthusiastically nodding.

"I invented driving, therefore, it is impossible for me to be bad at it." Denmark said with a smirk. Norway ignored this—Denmark was convinced he invented a lot of things, and some were more credible than others. Norway thought the idea that he invented the famous Danish pastry feasible, while he highly doubted that Denmark invented the internet. On the rare occasion Norway heard "I invented x" he simply ignored Denmark.

They passed towering trees and emerald, healthy greenery as the road meandered gently down the hill, and Denmark remained remarkably relaxed, even when cars came from the opposite direction. Iceland allowed his mind to drift. It was a magnificently beautiful day in Oslo, with a warm bright sun and not a cloud in the deep blue sky. The ride was smooth and unhurried, and he was comfortable between Norway and the car door. Iceland basked in the warm light that cascaded through the window, and the dull hum of the engine was pleasant and rhythmic, lulling him into a tranquil, aloof level of consciousness. Conversations flowed in and out of his ears, cadences of each contributor clear and distinct as Iceland pondered his puffin, lunch, sailboats, and other inane pleasures. Norway gave directions, Sweden gave instructions, and there was no arguing. Denmark was silent, which indicated he was focused on the road and attentive to his actions.

And before either of them knew, they were back in Norway's house. The scenic drive had lasted about an hour. All five of them felt calmed and content. Iceland decided to rest on the soft, sweet grass that grew on the hill that Norway's house was perched on, and Sweden watched the ocean with Norway, making deep and thought provoking conversation while Iceland tuned in every so often.

"Did you like it?" Finland asked Denmark, who was eating straight from Norway's refrigerator. Denmark looked up from the apple in his hand and met Finland's cheerful eyes. He shrugged and took a massive bite out of the shiny, red apple before murmuring, "Eh. It was okay. Boring."

"Boring?" Finland echoed. "You did really well today, by the way."

Denmark had surprised them numerous times by displaying intelligence: He was fast, capable learner, and was quite innovative at times. Finland didn't expect Denmark to have such a natural affinity for driving. His driving was as smooth as Norway's, Finland's, and Sweden's, but for a first time driver he did well. Denmark had a trained eye when it came spatial measurements.

"Biking is more fun." Denmark said, smirking. He slung an arm around Finland's neck in an overly-familiar gesture that felt threatening to Finland, who gave a twitchy, uncertain smile back. "Next time, I'll have to teach _you_ how to ride a bike."

* * *

That'll happen eventually. Not next chapter, though. But soon. _wink wink_

Reviews will make me post more.


	5. Parties

Chapter 5: See-food

* * *

Kräftskiva.

Iceland had heard the word before, and not in a connotation he liked. It was, quite literally, a crayfish party. Who the hell has a party with crayfish? Well, Denmark, Norway, Sweden, and of course, Finland. Novelty paper party hats topped the heads of those four. Iceland had been offered a hat, but he declined. Iceland would be seventeen in about three days—he was much too old to be wearing things like that. He lingered in the corner of Finland's kitchen, avoid eye contact with anyone.

"Oh, they're cute." Finland observed, stroking a crayfish's tail in a loving, filial manner. He crooned at it in Finnish, earning him an unnoticed but slightly baffled look from Sweden. With that, Finland flung the crayfish into the boiling water. Sweden and Norway exchanged glances—the morbidity of Finland's words in relation to his action was somewhat eerie. Finland paused to take a long sip of his beer and glanced at Sweden, who was in charge of making dessert, and judging by the ingredients displayed on the kitchen island, he was baking a cake. Norway was drinking tastefully and reading, seated at the table and glancing up to observe the activities every so often. Iceland was just standing there awkwardly. He did, however, like the beer. And of course the snaps of Akvavit that poured himself every so often.

Yesterday evening the topic of kräftskiva had been raised. Iceland nonchalantly mentioned that he had never attended such a party, which prompted Sweden and Finland to plan a party right away as soon as the shock of hearing this passed. Such a party was traditionally held in August, but the two decided to have it right then, in June, in Helsinki. Norway wondered how Iceland could even be related to him at this statement—then again, Iceland had been wondering if he was related to him long before that. Denmark insisted they were 'practically twins' and very much alike. While the two certainly weren't twins, they were undeniably similar in personality. Both were reserved and reticent, though Iceland was slightly more diffident than Norway, who was well known for his frankness and evasive nature. Oddly enough, Norway was incapable of showing excitement or strong emotion; whereas Iceland's latent feelings would erupt if provoked. Sweden noted that the two bore physical resemblances to each other as well, though this was disregarded by Norway and Iceland. Their duty, as brothers that were on good terms but too different or separated from each other to actually hold a conversation, was to scoff at any observations that related them as brothers.

"Aren't they cute, Sweden?" Finland pressed, brandishing a crayfish under Sweden's nose. Sweden leaned away and glanced at the red crustacean that was being waved around. He grunted noncommittally and returned back to measuring ingredients. He cringed slightly at the splash that followed as Finland threw another one in. Sweden's reverie was shattered when he heard the front door bounce off the wall with a bang. Denmark had arrived.

"Oh, crap…nothing's broken, I promise." Denmark said nervously from the foyer. His heavy, ungraceful footsteps came closer, and Denmark appeared in the kitchen. There were white, powdery spots on his shirt and face, even a bit in his hair. Norway was going to ask, but Iceland did that for him.

"What happened to you?" Iceland asked, scowling slightly.

"Bakery." Denmark said, taking a deep sniff of the air in Finland's house. He smelled crayfish, beer, and dill. Delicious. "I work at a bakery. It was a busy day today."

"I didn't know you were capable of holding down a job." Norway said, giving Denmark a dubious look. Denmark patted Norway's back roughly, nearly knocking Norway over. Denmark was highly capable of holding down a job, but in a city where there was so much to do, why spend hours trapped in a cubicle?

"I started working at a bakery in Copenhagen last month." Denmark said casually. "'Cause, you know, I'm awesome like that, and I get to meet pretty girls."

Norway had to admit, Denmark was an excellent baker—his cakes were the moistest, most flavorful ones Norway had ever eaten. Not only that, they were aesthetically pleasing, symmetrical, and not a whip of frosting was out of place. Norway didn't even have a sweet tooth, but Denmark's treats easily created one. Sweden could picture Denmark in a quaint, cheery bakery, charming all the cute girls that walked in. There would likely be winking and sexy self hair-tousling. Iceland snorted—what kind of man worked in a bakery? An image of Denmark clad in a pink apron popped up in mind. That same Denmark had an axe and beer in hand, with a platter of goodies in the other. Iceland honestly didn't know what to make of this.

"And I make an epic Danish, as you know." Denmark said with a pompous little laugh. "Also, Iceland, if you were as cool as me, you'd work at a bakery too."

"What exactly do you do at that bakery?" Iceland asked, raising an eyebrow. Denmark's 'profession' was sketchy, to say the least. A straight man over the age of twenty behind the counter at a bakery just seemed odd to Iceland. In the end, he reasoned that Denmark could, in fact, make baking look manly.

"Bake. Sell stuff. Talk to cute chicks." Denmark said with a shrug. He brushed some flour off of his arm. "I'm only there two days a week from nine to two."

"'Cause they wouldn't w'nt you there 'ny longer th'n that." Sweden said under his breath. Sweden had a feeling Denmark just loafed around at work, getting girls' numbers and sweet talking them, as a professional lady killer. Sweden frowned in disapproval. Denmark wasn't a player, but he did get a kick out of seeing girls giggle and blush with glee. Then Sweden was hit by an inane epiphany: Denmark was probably there for publicity. To have a good looking young man work at a bakery would attract customers, which would bring money and reputation. Denmark was undeniably attractive, but his charm worked on some people more than others, namely, women of all ages. Of all of them, Denmark was the king of flirtation. Next in line was probably Finland, who attracted girls simply because he was such a sweet do-gooder (and was attracted to girls for the same reason). Norway followed, though Sweden had only seen him 'flirt' (give a dry compliment to a girl) once or twice. As far as he knew, Norway was picky with women. He liked them tall and blond, which was easy to find in these parts, but they had to have a certain personality. Sweden doubted Norway even knew what type of personality he liked in women. Iceland was the opposite of flirty, but he did notice good looking women. If possible, Iceland was pickier in Norway. As for Sweden, well, he had better things to do than sweet talk women. He found all this love business to be inessential.

"Sweden, are you baking a cake? Ha! You're doing it all wrong. Let me—"

Sweden slowly looked up from his work in progress and lowered at Denmark fiercely. The shadow cast on his face by the lighting was supposed to dim his eyes, yet they glowed with the fury of a nuclear reactor's core. Hostility emanated from him. Sweden's eyebrows were turned downward in a menacing frown, and his grip on the knife tightened spastically. Denmark stopped dead in his tracks and took a step back, raising his hands in defense. Sweden returned to his culinary art. Denmark snatched a party hat from the table and placed it at a stylish, jaunty angle on his head of messy hair. He then decided to 'supervise' the activity by loitering near Sweden and Finland while drinking obscene amounts of Swedish beer.

"We're leaving for Reykjavik tomorrow morning." Norway announced.

"Since when?" Sweden asked blankly.

"Iceland's birthday is coming up. He wishes to spend it in Reykjavik."

Sweden was all right with that idea. He had only been to Reykjavik once or twice on business, and Finland hadn't even been to Iceland at all. Finland was making a mental list of what to bring—camera included, of course.

"Good deal." Denmark agreed. "I like Iceland. The place, not the guy. Haha! I'm kidding of course, Ice."

Iceland dodged a noogie by throwing himself under the table. But Denmark's ego was inflated by alcohol, and his persistence had also been upped. He followed Iceland right under the table, grabbing for his head.

"What is wrong with you?" Iceland demanded incredulously, eyes flashing with genuine irritation. Sweden looked up from his cake mix and barely acknowledged Denmark's presence under the table. Denmark became more idiotic the minute alcohol made its debut. Sweden frowned—Denmark had only drank six beer bottles, meaning he was only on the verge of becoming drunk. Sweden was not happy with the fact he was able to differentiate Denmark's beer bottles from everyone else's, as Denmark liked to balance his bottles upside down once empty. A neat row of six was on Finland's marble countertop. In the meantime, Norway took his advantageous location and landed a blow to Denmark's side with his foot. Denmark hissed in pain.

"I dislike Denmark—the land _and _the person." Norway said coolly.

Finland chuckled at Norway's riposte and threw a few more crayfish into the boiling vat of salt water. Boiling one hundred would be a good number—twenty for each, and these crayfish were fairly large to begin with. To be efficient (Finland's version of reckless) he had three large pots boiling on the stove. The fire extinguisher was under the sink and at the ready, just in case. The windows were open, allowing a cool breeze into the stifling kitchen. Finland turned to the plastic box where all of the crayfish had been. But Finland noticed there was only one left. He picked up in the stroked its tail with the tip of his finger. Oh, this one was _cute. _Adorable, in fact. It was brightly colored, with strong claws and antenna that moved about vivaciously. Its sweet little legs tickled Finland's palm. Finland would keep this one. He gave the crayfish a kiss on the head. At an uncanny timing, Sweden looked up to see Finland give it a kiss.

Norway was the only one to witness the expression that overcame Sweden's face, since Denmark had peer pressured Iceland into playing hide and seek, since both were bored. Denmark told Iceland to stay inside the house, but Iceland had jetted outside a few minutes ago. Norway was on Iceland's side. Back to Sweden. Sweden's characteristic facial expression was none at all. After knowing him for so many years, Norway had able to tell how Sweden felt based on the placement of his eyebrows of the sheen of his eyes. A twitch of the lip in disapproval undetectable to anyone else was easy to spot for Norway. The face that Sweden made at seeing Finland's indulging could be best described as a severely disgusted, maniacal frown and a spastic curl of the lip, complete with a whole-body cringe. Sweden was likely reevaluating his friendship with Finland as bustled to the bathroom to go find a comfortable place for the crayfish while he cooked. Finland would buy a tank later, once the party was over.

"Sweden, I think I'm going to name my crayfish Blue Potato Salad." Finland said with a sure nod.

"'f y' want." Sweden grunted.

"Blue Potato Salad is in the bathtub right now, everyone." Finland explained. "So don't be alarmed…where'd Iceland and Denmark go?"

"I'm asking myself the same question." A pouting Denmark stomped into the kitchen. He looked frazzled and annoyed and just about ready to fling the party hat off of his head. His jaw was set and the smile had been wiped off ruddy face. "Where the hell did Ice go?"

"Check the bathroom down the hall." Norway suggested, disinterested. Finland bit back a smile and shot an eager glance at Norway. Denmark returned a minute later. His pout had turned to a blank, deadpan expression that resembled Norway's.

"There's a crayfish in the tub." Denmark said flatly. "A crayfish."

"Blue Potato Salad," Finland corrected politely.

"Wow, not going to lie, that's a fail name."

"I think it suits him." Finland sniffed.

Meanwhile, Iceland was outside, sitting on a fat, sturdy tree bough that give him a good view of the kitchen. He was too far away to distinguish the exact words being said, but Denmark looked disgruntled and Finland's usual grin had turned into a cold, mechanical smile as he busied himself with extracting cooked crayfish from the boiling water. Iceland quickly repressed the smirk that tugged at the corners of his mouth. Denmark would never find him up in the tree. Iceland, opportunistic as ever, took the rare chance to be alone to do some light daydreaming. His mind flit to each like thought like butterflies to a flower—from Mr. Puffin to Sweden's glasses and even his favorite song that he began to hum quietly. So quietly that the breeze that shook the leaves created a sound that overpowered his humming. When he smelled the overpowering, yet pleasant scent of dill waft from the kitchen, he knew it time to eat. Iceland leapt from the branch and landed on his feet with a thud, knees bending in reaction to the high fall. Iceland calmly walked into the house and meandered to the kitchen.

"By the way, Ice, I automatically win this game of hide and seek." Denmark snapped, throwing a gaudy bib at Iceland for him to wear. Iceland had not even sat down. "Want to know why? Because you cheated."

"I never wanted to play in the first place." Iceland said dully. Honestly, Iceland would be seventeen tomorrow. He was much too old to be taking part in such puerile games. As the 'party' hit the climax, all was fairly quiet, save for the squelching and sucking sounds that came from each person as he sucked the juice out of the crayfish. And this was why Iceland was particularly reluctant to partake in parties with them. Instead of having a real party, rowdy and noisy, the five of them said not a word. Then again, Iceland would flee from a loud party just as he'd escape from a quiet, boring party. The dilemma sent a twang of chagrin through Iceland. He had no choice but accept the fact he'd never enjoy a party. Luckily, the thought was left unfinished as Denmark slammed a hand on the table and stood up, pointing his finger at each person before making an extremely important announcement.

"I challenge all of you to an eating contest!" Denmark thundered. "Winner gets bragging rights and the paper crane that I made on my flight here."

Sweden declined the offer, as expected. To everyone's surprise Finland, Iceland, and even Norway agreed to the challenge.

"You know, I was surfing the web and I discovered this week-long even that is quite popular in the United States about sharks." Finland said thoughtfully.

"Can't talk, winning," Denmark said through mouthfuls of crayfish. Norway and Iceland were skillfully shelling theirs, placing the empty, vividly red shells on the side of their plate. Sweden was eating at a normal speed like a true gentleman, with long swigs of beer and slices of cheese in between. Delicious. The only thing that would've made the moment perfect was the absence of Denmark and the idea of the eating competition. A notion that this wouldn't end well had lodged itself in Sweden's gut. Norway proclaimed defeat after eating twelve—throughout this senseless race Norway had maintained a sophisticated air. He knew when to stop eating before he became nauseous, and felt very full, albeit comfortable. At once, Norway withdrew the famous book from his pocket and began to read. This left Denmark, Iceland, and Finland. Finland was making pathetically one-sided conversation while eating, usually getting no replies or reactions from Iceland and Denmark, who were flinging shells aside and tearing into the crayfish. By now, Sweden's amusement had turned to mild concern. He counted eight on his plate and twelve on Norway, meaning that the remaining eighty were either roiling about inside a stomach or about to be eaten.

"How many have you eaten, Iceland?" Finland asked.

Iceland shrugged and ripped the shell off a crayfish, sinking his teeth in.

At twenty four, Iceland gave up. He put his head on the table and did not lift it for a very, very, long time. It wasn't long before Denmark started to groan about feeling ill and did the same as Iceland. Sweden and Norway were counting the crayfish. Denmark ate twenty six before he felt sick. Meaning that…

"Oh, that was delicious!" Finland exclaimed, placing the last shell on the formidable pile on his plate. Seems like we're out of crayfish. What a shame. I'll make more next year."

"Finland, how many did you eat?" Norway asked.

Finland counted under his breath, sifting through his pile of bright red shells. Before the word 'twenty seven', Denmark's head shot up, incredulity plastered all over his wan countenance. Defeat? Impossible.

"…Thirty. Thirty crayfish, wow. That means I win." Finland grinned and held out his hand to Denmark, who stared at him questionably.

"What?"

"Paper crane."

"Oh." Denmark dumped the paper crane (barely recognizable after hours in his pocket) in Finland's palm. Finland decided to use it as the table's centerpiece for the time being.

"I think I'm dying." Iceland muttered.

"It's your own fault." Norway said, clear note of disapproval in his voice.

"Seriously, I'm probably going to puke." Denmark said, wiping his sweating forehead with the back of his hand.

"Not in my kitchen, please." Finland implored, eyebrows knitting together. He shook his head.

"Anyone w'nt cake?" Sweden offered. He still had a delicious, moist cake waiting to be served. It was frosted 'artistically' (nonsymmetrical, with colors) and was topped with fresh, brilliantly red strawberries.

"Yeah, not happening." Denmark said tremulous, rising from his chair. He left the kitchen and veered right. Blue Potato Salad would make good company. Iceland headed the same way three minutes later, and Finland was enjoying a slice of cake with a side of salmiakki. Sweden was also lifting forkfuls of sweet cake to his mouth and Norway was serving himself a slice. Following this, they had a few (10) snaps each.

"What a pretty evening." Finland remarked.

"F'r us." Sweden pointed out. He inclined his head in the direction of the bathroom.

"Blue Potato Salad must love having people with him." Finland said. "Even though they're slightly incapacitated at the moment."

Norway snorted with annoyance. Eating competitions were so childish. And yet, Norway felt Iceland and Denmark had been punished duly by their own bodies. After the twenty minute mark, Finland decided they needed to be checked on.

"Maybe they died." Norway said impassively.

As always, Norway's bluntness spoke for all of them. Finland poked his head into the bathroom and greeted the sick people enthusiastically. He ignored Denmark, whose head was submerged in the shallow water of the bathtub that was set up according for Blue Potato Salad. Blue Potato Salad was crawling about happily, relatively undisturbed by Denmark's head in the water. Sweden solved the problem by grabbing Denmark by the collar of his shirt and yanking him out of the water.

"Stop harr'ssing th' an'mals." Sweden grumbled.

"It's possible he died," Finland said nervously, pointing to Denmark, who was a moaning heap on the floor. "How are you doing, Iceland?"

Norway tried to banish any feeling of sympathy that bubbled up within him when he saw Iceland, on his knees, arms around the toilet bowl. He deserved it. And yet, Norway was inclined to give Iceland a break. The poor kid had spent the past half hour spilling his guts out.

"Ugh" Was the only thing remotely close to a reply Iceland could manage. While Finland patted Iceland's back, Sweden was glared at Denmark with burning disappointment. Denmark had stretched himself out on the bathroom floor, facedown. This was no way to act as a guest. Finland seemed to understand, and let Denmark's lack of etiquette slip by.

"Me and Ice are bonding." Denmark said with hiccup. He was not only drunk, but nauseous as well. The combination could not have been any more unfortunate.

"S-Shut up." Iceland mumbled.

"Iceland and _I_," Norway corrected under his breath. He brushed a few strands of hair out of his eyes and shifted his glacial gaze to Iceland, who had emerged from the toilet bowl, white faced and trembling. Finland and Sweden went to go drink beer outside and have a deep conversation while watching the sunset, which Norway would join once Iceland regained coloring and stopped trembling. Norway sat with his legs crossed on the counter, watching Iceland keenly. Denmark had relocated to Finland's couch. After about half an hour, Iceland regained his normal coloring.

"Are you feeling better?" Norway asked quietly. He held out a hand to Iceland.

"I don't think you want to touch me." Iceland murmured, averting his gaze to the floor.

"I'm wearing gloves."

Norway pulled Iceland up from the floor in a single, fluid motion. Blue Potato Salad, skittering about in the tub, caught Norway's eye. Admittedly, it was somewhat cute.

"You should rest." Norway's offer had been uttered like a command.

"I'm fine. I just ate too much." Iceland said.

"You've learned your lesson, I assume." Norway said. He folded his arms and gave Iceland's heel a tap with the toe of his boot, and indication for Iceland to walk out of the bathroom. Loitering in a bathroom was essentially pointless, and slightly uncomfortable, given the live animal in the bath tub. Finland's definition of cute was severely warped.

"You'll see Mr. Puffin tomorrow." Norway made a feeble attempt to strike up a conversation with his younger brother, who seemed to be a little embarrassed or brooding.

"Yeah." Iceland said.

"I'd like to meet him." Norway said. "He must have a strong personality."

"Um, yeah. You will." Iceland had never heard Norway or anyone use that terminology when referring to an animal. Norway had a proclivity of revealing his quirkiness around Iceland, but in doing so he usually brutally assassinated the conversation. Iceland tried to resuscitate it.

"He gets violent sometimes." This wasn't exactly a lie—Mr. Puffin attacked Iceland if Iceland slept in past three in the afternoon or if Iceland was taking his sweet time in walking to his boss' house. Iceland wanted to see the kind of reaction he'd get from Norway by throwing that tidbit out there.

"Not to worry." Norway said airily. He was quite skilled with unruly beasts. And this was but a little puffin.

"Next time we're in Norway, I'll take you to the fjords." Norway said.

Iceland didn't understand how that related to the conversation, but he was gradually starting to accept Norway as his brother, despite his whimsical, somewhat off-putting tendencies. But seriously, what did fjords have to do with violent pets? Iceland would ponder it on the three hour flight to Reykjavik tomorrow.

* * *

I failed with updating this chapter, but I'll go back to my usual 4-7 day span between updates.

Long chapter is long. I'm so used to writing chapters that are twenty pages.

Disclaimer: I've never attended a kräftskiva. I should ask my Swedish neighbors about it...

Review and I'll become very, very happy.


	6. Home

Chapter 6: Berries

* * *

And the next morning, Iceland found himself wondering what chain of events finally landed him on a Reykjavik-bound plane sitting on the runway of Helsinki's airport at seven oh one in the morning. He sat between Norway and Denmark, with Finland and Sweden across the aisle. Iceland was flummoxed. The plane was about to take off, yet Sweden was doing Sudoku out of a cheap airline magazine. Denmark was having a messy breakfast of cereal, donuts, and chocolate milk; Norway had the tray down to rest his book on. In other words, they were blatantly ignoring everything the flight attendants had warned them not to do.

Iceland had mixed feelings about flying. He thought it was exhilarating to the ocean, lit silver by the bright sun ripple, under him. The fluffy, frozen clouds at arm's reach stole his breath. And yet, Iceland couldn't stand flying. He found it distinctly uncomfortable. Being holed up in a plane that bounced over unstable air and shackled to his place by that seatbelt that cut into his skin (Denmark had taken the matter of safety into his hands) with the lit sign overhead. The mocking offers of bland, severely overpriced food and snacks. And the takeoff. Iceland wanted to kill himself during the takeoff. Usually. And given the overcast skies, today would be one of those days.

The plane bolted forward as it gained speed and air under its wings. Iceland stared out the window, watching grass and cement pass by at a dizzying speed. The plane tipped upward, and they were off the ground. Iceland watched, both horrified at the feeling of flying with nothing holding the plane up but air and intrigued as Helsinki was shrunk. They shot through thick clouds that buffered the plane, lifting it up and letting it fall, causing Iceland to jump in surprise. Denmark was still eating breakfast like nothing was happening. Finland was gripping the armrests of his seat with a forced smile and wide eyes, and Iceland would have been doing the same thing (minus the smile) if he was alone and didn't have to mask his discomfort due to the fact his brother was sitting on his left. With that book open in his hands, Norway was oblivious to everything that happened around him, but that didn't mean he wasn't paying attention to his younger brother. Norway noted that Iceland was nibbling on his lower lip in mildly anxious manner.

"Is flying not to your liking?" Norway asked Iceland. His cadet blue eyes remained focused on the page.

"It's complicated." Iceland replied.

"Ha! This is nothing." Denmark said triumphantly. "Right, Norway? When we ruled the northern seas, the waves were brutal, they were alive! I was violated by a few."

"They were violent." Norway agreed, choosing to ignore Denmark's last sentence. He turned the page and found himself staring at the cover. Norway closed the depleted book and tucked it away with a quiet sigh.

Not this again. As much as Iceland found their Viking adventures to be interesting (sometimes a little stretched) he didn't want to hear comparisons between air turbulence and choppy seas. Vikings and pilots didn't have much in common, Iceland thought.

"These pilots and sailors have it easy." Denmark scoffed. "They have technology. Man, if it weren't for Norway's freaky sky-reading skills, we would have been screwed."

"You two Vikinged together?" Iceland wished he could suck that sentence back into his mouth. Iceland mentally chastised himself for being so stupid. But the sentence had already been registered by Denmark, who snorted at the coined word with amusement.

"Yes, we Vikinged together for a point in time." Norway replied. Iceland was slightly relieved to hear not a hint of mockery in Norway's smooth voice. And if Iceland was delusional from lack of sleep, he noted a small, placid smile grace Norway's lips as he spoke the word, but even then Iceland wasn't sure whether it was an actual smile or just an odd curvature of his mouth.

Outside the thin piece of glass that separated Iceland from the open air, a new landscape opened up under him as they soared over the blanket of clouds. The sky was a rich, cornflower blue color, and the dimpled quilt of clouds below glowed white with the shine of the sun. Iceland desperately wanted to touch the sky. As dumb and as impossible at it was to even breathe outside that window, a strong envy of those clouds slipped into Iceland's mind. In those clouds, Iceland made out messages and shapes of all kinds. Iceland wouldn't mind being a cloud, gliding across the sky, guided by the mercurial winds, watching over the cities and lush fields below on different continents. As a cloud he'd always be a source of inspiration, and looked up to (literally) for his arcane essence. He'd always be present, as part of an ocean, sky, or glacier, and would never be forgotten. On days when he took on a most spectacular form he'd be noticed by old and young alike, whether he stood as a noble obelisk of ice floating in navy seas or presented himself as a single, ethereal cloud against a shamelessly azure sky. He'd not have to speak to anyone, and had the freedom to let his nebulous mind roam with the flora and fauna on earth or with the winking stars light years overhead.

A sigh escaped Iceland when he realized this would never happen. Maybe in a feverish dream, but not in real life.

"The sky is a lot like the sea." Denmark remarked—or Denmarked, given the intellectual depth of the statement.

"Obviously." Iceland said with an ill-suppressed eye roll. He wasn't in the mood to hear aggrandized stories or inane comparisons a child could make. "It's the ocean with clouds instead of water."

"I prefer the ocean." Norway stated.

"The ocean is the best." Denmark said with a vigorous nod he leaned across the aisle. "Am I right, Sweden? Oh. Looks he died against the window there."

As Denmark put so eloquently, Sweden had fallen asleep against the window and showed no signs of life.

"I can never sleep on flights. I don't want to miss any fun turbulence, and flying is fun." Denmark said, shaking his head. "Well, boating is more fun.

Norway and Iceland made no reply to this statement. In Norway's opinion, Denmark was stating the obvious. Iceland, however, made no reply because both activities were invigorating in distinct ways. Iceland peered out the window. The clouds were intermittent fluffs now; the vast, silver ocean was visible below them. It glimmered so brightly his pale eyes watered, yet his gaze would not stray.

About two and half hours later, Iceland was jarred from his thoughts when the pilot spoke in Icelandic, announcing that the plane would land in the next half hour. Iceland hadn't heard his native tongue in so long, and he hadn't spoken it in ages. He preferred English, and even then he was a bit diffident to speak it because his thick accent was carried over to English as well. Hearing the world's roll off the pilot's tongue with such fluency struck Iceland. He could speak like that. But he chose not to. Denmark nudged Iceland in the ribs, eyes twinkling.

"What? Do you need something?" Iceland mumbled, moving away from Denmark.

"Icelandic. You need to speak it more." Denmark chided. "Otherwise, you'll forget."

"Um, are you really telling me that?" Iceland posed the question as a flat, monotone sentence. "I don't think I can forget my native language."

"If you keep blathering in English, then you will." Norway pointed out.

"It happened to that psycho lady, Belarus. She's almost forgotten Belarusian completely." Denmark said, blue eyes wide for emphasis.

"Whatever." Iceland said dismissively. He wasn't stupid enough to forget his own language.

Iceland's excitement was piqued when he felt his guts rise as the plane dropped. Denmark chuckled at the feeling of dropping, and Norway shifted his gaze to the window. The ocean's waves had become more sharp, clear. And then, the waves disappeared, and they were flying over the magnificent greenery of Iceland. By now, Iceland could see the details on the trees. The world under him became surreal when the bay appeared. Boats left foamy white trails behind in the gloriously blue waters. Lighthouses stood on rocky cliffs. He could see cars on the road, locals walking about on the sidewalks streets. The colored rooftops of the buildings were bits of candy, vividly colorful in the sunlight. A small peninsula appeared and disappeared—Iceland knew the runway was close, and he didn't bother concealing his fervor. The sea was almost at arm's reach, only until the runway made its debut feet under Iceland. As soon as the plane touched the ground, relief washed over Iceland with the same force of a waterfall. Home at last.

"Reykjavik is a small place." Denmark said thoughtfully. Iceland cast him a chilling glare, as if challenging him to say something negative about his home. Iceland would attack Denmark if he did. Denmark said nothing more. Instead, he sprung up from his seat and claimed a place in line on the way out of the plane. Finland was now smiling normally, as he very pleased to be on firm ground (Iceland didn't tell him about the commonplace earthquakes). Sweden was still half asleep, and he too had claimed a place in the aisle. The line moved quickly, until they were in the relatively quiet Reykjavik airport.

"So quiet." Denmark remarked. His local airport was busy and bustling. But this airport had a homey, quaint feel to it.

"Lead the way, Iceland." Norway drawled. He gave Iceland a sharp poke in the back to make him move. Iceland was distracted by all the familiar advertisements and listening in on conversations carried out in his native tongue. Iceland led the troupe outside, and the five were stuffed in a taxi. While Iceland discussed fares with him, Norway, Sweden, and Finland looked on curiously. Denmark listened in. He could understand every word that was said. Denmark had shocked them numerous times by displaying intelligence and depth on rare occasions, and it seemed one of his talents was linguistics. He caught languages quickly, even the esoteric Icelandic. He has hinted that he has a grasp of French. Denmark was fluent in Danish, Norwegian, Swedish, Icelandic, German, and English—he was quite the polyglot, and even had a basic yet firm grasp of other languages, such as Finnish. Denmark was the only one of them that could understand each one's native language, and that was a secret he'd always keep to himself. It was something he prided himself in, but Denmark never bragged about his talent in linguistics—he didn't want to be the 'smart' one. Instead, he bragged about his biking skills. But Denmark decided to stun them all by asking the taxi driver question in Icelandic.

"Since when do you speak Icelandic?" Iceland questioned, brow furrowing.

"Oh, you know. Taught myself." Denmark said sheepishly. He waved his hand pompously. Right after that, he decided to pop the collar of the polo he wore. Iceland had to force himself to disregard this.

"Do you know any other languages?" Finland asked, deeply intrigued.

"Maybe." Denmark said evasively. He refused to answer any more questions and decided to bask in his own glory. Denmark surveyed the buildings that passed by and watched the locals mill about as the taxi drove by. So many shops and happy citizens! Denmark couldn't wait to start mingling with them.

After a painfully short tour of Iceland's house that was prolonged by Finland's curious questions, Iceland made it very clear that they were to make themselves at home. Naturally, this was a cover up of sort so that Iceland could ostracize himself in his room upstairs. It wasn't that he didn't like his visitors—Sweden, Finland, and Norway were mature and blessed with common sense (to a certain extent), especially in comparison to Denmark, who was already causing problems outside. He sat outside, still as a statue (complete with the stony expression), because he was jealous of Iceland's house (only Denmark would be capable of being jealous of an inanimate object) and wanted puffins to perch on him instead of the house. Along with that, Denmark wanted to pet them, so he claimed. Iceland felt that Denmark was itching to scare them away for laughs as soon as one unfortunate puffin ventured close enough.

As Iceland meandered the corridors of his house, a content feeling warmed him. He was finally in the place he knew best, where he could be undisturbed. It had been well over a week since he had been home, having been dragged from Copenhagen to Oslo all the way to Helsinki. With a brief sigh, Iceland turned into his room and stopped short. Someone was already there.

Norway leaned against the windowsill in a relaxed fashion, peering at a black puffin that wore a pink bow. Mr. Puffin was scrutinizing Norway with utmost interest. In an experimental fashion, Norway reached a hand out and stroked the he puffin's sleek wing. Any contentedness Iceland had drained. He had a strong notion that Mr. Puffin would notice him if he moved, which would bring Iceland to Norway's attention, which would mean a very awkward predicament if Norway demanded a formal introduction, and given Norway's quirkiness, he would.

"Ah, Iceland. There you are." Norway said briskly, shifting his gaze to Iceland, motionless in the doorway. "This is Mr. Puffin, is it not?"

Iceland nodded mutely.

"Introduce me to him."

And that night in the comfort of his own room, Iceland uttered the stupidest sentence of the century.

"Mr. Puffin, meet Norway. He's my older brother."

Iceland felt a warm flush creep up his cheeks. Mr. Puffin couldn't even talk. And yet, Norway insisted a formal introduction. Iceland had always questions Norway's sanity to some extent, but at the moment he wholly doubted his mental health. He was even more perturbed when Norway spoke to the puffin in an officious tone he reserved for socialization with fellow authority figures.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Puffin. I've heard a lot of things about you. I'm Norway." Norway greeted.

"Ice, you dope, you never told me you had a brother." A voice said. It was then Iceland realized that the puffin had spoken. Mr. Puffin had addressed Iceland in fluent English. There was no way in hell Iceland wasn't on drugs at that moment. Desperation pounded like a fever in his head. "What's the matter with ya?"

"Iceland withheld that bit of information, did he?" Norway said softly. A steely sheen lit his eyes, and his gaze flickered to Iceland, who stood there, gaping, watching his brother make actual conversation with a puffin.

"Okay, I can't do this."Iceland mumbled. A note of desperate hysteria tainted his tone. He turned on his heel to make a quick escape. Norway halted this immediately by grabbing the collar of Iceland's shirt and brusquely jerking him back to his original place by the windowsill. Iceland's second attempt to Iceland was stopped by the cold, almost hostile glance Norway sent his way. Iceland laid his fingers on both of his temples and shut his eyes, letting out an exasperated breath as he tried to process the situation. Mr. Puffin and Norway having a conversation. Mr. Puffin referring to him as a 'dope'. Norway's furious lower aimed right at him. Discreetly, Iceland pinched himself, only to feel the sting of the pinch and the tears of sheer frustration that welled up in his eyes. He wasn't dreaming. Norway was making better conversation with a puffin that was likely a mafia boss than he would with his own brother, his blood relative.

"Your little bro's a quiet one." Mr. Puffin chuckled. "Hey, I gotta go get some dinner for the family."

"You're married? Fascinating." Norway murmured.

Iceland's eye snapped open at hearing Norway's question. He stared at the man he shared blood with wide, incredulous eyes.

"Yeah, she's a beaut. And the kids look just like her, God bless 'em. Gotta jet. Smell ya later, Nor."

And with that, Mr. Puffin flew away and joined the flock of puffins that glided in the sky.

"What is wrong with you?" Iceland demanded, throwing his arms up in exasperation.

"I'd like to ask you the same question, Iceland." Norway snapped. Iceland drew a breath. He'd never heard that kind of irritation in Norway's voice. The monotone had dissipated, leaving behind words dripping with aggravation, and another emotion that Iceland was afraid to pinpoint.

"You were talking to a puffin like it was…like it was your brother!" Iceland said emphatically. Iceland had seen Norway make easy, almost pleasant conversation with Sweden, Finland, even Denmark on rare occasions, but never with Iceland. Conversations were short and perfunctory, impersonal.

"Obviously, Iceland, Mr. Puffin is fluent in English." Norway said, reverting to his monotone. "He spoke to us. I'll be downstairs."

Norway stalked out of the room without a look back.

"Idiot," Iceland murmured. He lifted himself onto the windowsill and decided to watch the placidity of the outdoors. Iceland's house, like Norway's, overlooked the ocean. But Norway's was surrounding by thick foliage, whereas Iceland's had a whole forest of birch trees only behind the house, making the sea his front yard. Iceland's house stood on a sturdy, green cliff that gave him an excellent view of the city and horizon alike. Iceland did not mind solitude and peace that he had floating on the North Atlantic Ocean, surrounded by choppy sea. He didn't mind roaming around his empty house, not saying word to anyone for days and watching summer sunsets late in the evening. The privacy and solitude he had was exquisite.

Meanwhile, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, and Norway sat round the dining table. The lighting cast mysterious shadows over their faces, and they leaned in toward the center, speaking in hushed voices. If the setting was in a tavern, alley, or nightclub, it would've looked as if they were conducting a drug deal. Instead, they were discussing ideas for tomorrow.

"I say we bake a seventeen layer cake." Denmark eagerly. He pounded his fist into his palm for emphasis, eyes blazing.

"Th't's ridiculous." Sweden grunted.

"Fine, let's take him clubbing—kidding, kidding. Man, you guys need to loosen up a bit!" Denmark had received less than positive reactions from that statements, especially from Norway. Denmark had meant it as a joke, but Norway had no sense of humor for things that involved Iceland's maturity as a 'young man'.

"I suppose we can bake that cake." Finland said with a shrug. He didn't have a problem with staying up all night baking. "But that means we'll have to start it now. His birthday is tomorrow and it's almost ten at night."

"Finl'nd, let's get th' 'ngrendients." Sweden said. He spotted car keys on the counter and tucked them into his pocket.

You'll need this." Norway threw a leather object at Sweden, who caught it nimbly. Iceland's wallet, heavy with krónur. And with that, the two were off. Time was against them, and so was Denmark's ridiculous idea about baking a seventeen layer cake. That idea was laughing in their faces, pointing at the four of them with spindly, sticky fingers. Denmark was laughing his joy. Another opportunity to show his mad skillz, this time, his mad baking skills. Denmark didn't see the seventeen layer cake as an obstacle, he saw it as captivating challenge, likely because it was his idea in the first place. However, those with common sense knew it was quite an obstacle.

* * *

Oh, God. I hate flying, but I like traveling. CONUNDRUM. Dramamine to the rescue.

Yes, yes, filler chapter is slight filler. And Mr. Puffin isn't going to become an actual character. He'll just make cameos from now on.

Next chapter will probably be long and stuff.

And you may have noticed that my chapter titles (see above) make no sense. Actually, they are related to the chapter. See if you can get it right!

Review for Iceland's sanity.


	7. Cakes

Chapter 7: American Cake

* * *

And so, Denmark, Sweden, and Finland got to work on baking that obese, absurd cake.

But not without a lengthy trip to the supermarket. Sweden and Finland had accepted the huge responsibility that was buying the ingredients for cake, had ventured into Reykjavik (not knowing a single word in Icelandic) and moseyed into the first supermarket they saw. Sweden told Finland to stay with him, as Finland had a bad habit of drifting off in stores as soon something cute or strange catching his eye. When Sweden turned around to ask Finland for his opinion brown eggs versus white eggs (Sweden personally preferred brown eggs), Finland was nowhere to be seen. No. Only a few straggling customers.

"Damm't." Sweden muttered, running hand through his hair. He bit his tongue to keepfrom swearing out of sheer exasperation at friend's inability to follow directions or use common sense. Denmark came to mind, and Sweden decided to revise his thought regarding Finland's…disabilities. Sweden started a dignified, somewhat angry march around the store, casting his frosty blue gaze down each aisle in search of Finland. The basket he held was weighed down with milk, flour, cartons of eggs and sugar, as Sweden didn't believe in that new-fangled dry cake mix. Ha! What a joke. A cake wasn't good unless it was authentic. And Sweden planned to prove to Denmark that his cakes were better. Denmark may have been able to whip up a delicious, succulent pastry, but could he bake a perfect cake? After twenty minutes of walking around aimlessly, Sweden spotted Finland in the candy aisle, surveying the racks of salmiakki with a finger to his lip, deep in thought and indecisiveness over a confection that traumatized foreigners' taste buds.

"Hey, Sweden." Finland greeted casually. Having seen the stony look on Sweden's face, Finland ripped a random bag of salmiakki off the shelf, turning on his heel and heading straight for the cash register. Sweden dumped the items on the conveyer belt and said not a word to cashier, as he quite literally didn't know what to say. After a very awkward exchange of money for food and car ride that felt longer than it really was due to Sweden's irritation, the two dumped all the goods on the kitchen island.

"Okay, great." Denmark said with a nod. He opened a box of eggs and plucked an egg from the carton, pedantically holding it up to light for inspection. Not even actual celebrity bakers did this. Denmark deemed it worthy with a loud hum of approval and placed it back in the carton. Sweden, a very serious, laconic person, would've laughed if he dropped the egg on his face. Denmark was opening cabinets and grabbing any oversize bowls he could find. He zipped over to the pantry and rummaged through it unabashedly until he found a suitable egg beater. Sweden was already breaking eggs into bowls while Finland opened up the flour and sugar, sending plumes of white smoke into the air.

Minutes turned into hours as the smell of vanilla cake filled the house. Twice Iceland had ventured dangerously close to the kitchen (the noise of the egg beater had jarred him from sleep), but Denmark duly solved the problem by flinging a groggy Iceland over his shoulder and hastily throwing him back into bed. Iceland probably wouldn't wake up any time soon due to head injuries and or whiplash.

By eight that morning, the cake was fully frosted and decorated, though the decorations were a bit sloppy and simplistic because Denmark was drunk (he found some beer) and tired from nonstop baking. Iceland, however, received another pleasant, small surprise upon waking up.

_Happy birthday, Iceland. – Norway_

The note was found resting on Iceland's bedside table in Norway's fairly loopy, odd penmanship that was a combination of cursive and print. Iceland frowned a little, throwing the note aside. Norway probably couldn't even wish him a happy birthday by speaking. Today Iceland was a year older. As always, he felt the same. Maritime made the curtains of his room billow out, and the Icelandic sky, an endlessly deep blue, stretched over him outside. Mr. Puffin was sitting on his window sill, gazing at him expectantly.

"What's the matter?" Iceland prompted bitterly. "Won't talk to me unless Norway is around?"

Mr. Puffin squawked a series of squawks that sounded vaguely like laughter. Iceland ignored him stared at the ceiling, brooding. He was supposed to be happy—it was his birthday. And yet, he felt stung and annoyed. Mr. Puffin (and Iceland) was scared away by the door that was thrown open by Denmark. The door bounced off the wall and rebounded into Denmark himself, who was slammed into the doorframe by the brute force of the rebound he had created.

"What the hell…" Iceland murmured. Denmark was covered in flour and couldn't walk straight. "Are you serious right now?"

"Happy birthday, Ice!" Denmark exclaimed. He charged at Iceland, who reflexively pulled his knees up to his chest to protect himself. Denmark grabbed Iceland's wrist and dragged him out of bed—Iceland didn't even bother struggling. He had been conscious for one minute and he was already being tossed around, simply because it was his birthday.

"How do you feel on this great day?" Denmark yelled in his face. Iceland detected a bit of alcohol on his breath. Sadly, it was not yet noon.

"Uh. The same." Iceland answered in an isn't-it-obvious tone. Then, something in the kitchen caught his eye. It was a cake. Three feet tall, frosted and decorated. In Iceland's opinion, it looked like a wedding cake. Denmark steered him into the kitchen and presented the cake with a smug grin on his face. Iceland paused and looked around. Sweden was leaning against the kitchen island, staring blankly at the cake. His glasses hid the dark circles under his eyes. Norway was presumably sleeping, face down on the table. Finland had fashioned himself a bed by lining a bunch of chairs up.

"Like it?" Denmark prompted.

"Yeah, it's…" Iceland didn't have anything to say that wouldn't be obvious. He couldn't decide what was more sad—the fact the cake was three feet tall or the fact that it was something that struck a bit of fear within him. Iceland doubted the five of them could even eat half a foot of it. The cake was huge. Too big, actually. He was going to comment on it, but asked a question instead. "How long did it take to make?"

"Eight hours and twenty seven minutes." Sweden replied mechanically. He repressed a yawn, but failed.

"You stayed up the whole night for a cake." Iceland posed the question as a disbelieving, slightly mocking statement. What kind of people did this? Only his fellow Nordics…and Finland. Who didn't exactly count as a Nordic.

"O-Of course." Finland stifled a monstrous yawn and sauntered over to Iceland. Finland gave him a pat on the back as a birthday congratulations.

"Are we dedicated, or what?" Denmark asked—a rhetorical question, of course. He already knew the answer to that. He grabbed Iceland by the shirt and forced him to suffer a rib-crushing hug that was topped off with a violent noogie that made Iceland's vision sparkle and ears ring. By now, Norway had woken up to the racket Denmark was making and had joined the group.

"Let's have breakfast and go out on the town." Denmark suggested. "Oh! Can we go to the Blue Lagoon, too?"

"I've heard so much about that place!" Finland almost yelled.

"If you want." Iceland mumbled. He'd been there many, many times.

The cake was served and eaten though not without Finland's insistence of eating an apple or something remotely healthy before they headed out for the famous Lagoon. The Happy Birthday would be reserved for tonight, as it would be more fitting in the evening. With the excessive amount of sugar in the cake (courtesy of the intuitive Sweden—he knew they'd need something to keep them awake) each of them was higher strung than usual. Unfortunately, it didn't last. By the time they'd arrived at the Blue Lagoon, some forty minutes from Reykjavik, all of them were suffering from a sugar crash.

With the glowing sun suspended high in a cloudless azure sky, the lagoon was a majestic, opaque pale blue color, water glimmering like a pool of diamonds, winking in the face of the sun. Black crags of volcanic rock surrounded the lagoon, and thick steam rose like fluffy clouds into the air (Iceland thought that if a factory of clouds existed, this was it). The Blue Lagoon had been a fairly uneventful experience. Sweden fell asleep in a corner of the lagoon (they discovered he could fall asleep anywhere), Denmark flirted with girls (they were French, so he charmed them in French) and spent most of his time with them. There was so much winking and sexy self hair tousling that he looked like he'd put his head in a blender by the time they left. But on his cheeks were the kisses he'd received from them, and the pride of getting girls. Finland was absolutely starry eyed the whole time, floating, limbs akimbo in the steaming water, idiot smile on his face. Norway and Iceland were on opposite sides of the Lagoon, but both were doing the same thing: daydreaming, brooding, contemplating, pondering, as expected of the brothers. Following this, they trekked around Reykjavik, streets bearing colorful parades in celebration of Icelandic Republic Day. Iceland's famous blue flag bearing the red and white cross flapped in sweet maritime breeze while the five of them picnicked on a grassy clearing in the city. Denmark was holding a lively conversation with the family sitting nearby. In fact, between people watching, catching girls' eyes, and nodding in approval at anyone that sped by on a bike, (before he could ask Iceland about bikes- "Finland still needs to learn how to ride a bike properly," Iceland said no) he struck conversations with the natives. In fact, Denmark had said a few words to two teenage girls that made them giggly bashfully. Iceland had never seen someone that understood the mind of a teenage girl so well. It was uncanny and highly questionable of Denmark, a grown man. If he started with the winking Iceland would call the police, and luckily, that was not necessary.

"Show off," Sweden grumbled, taking an extra violent bite of the sandwich.

"I noticed," Finland agreed. "He thinks he's so cool."

"It's obvious he's from Denmark. His pronunciation is right but he's a bit off in intonation." Norway observed.

"Let me guess—you know Icelandic too?" Finland said with a weary smile.

"Just enough to get around." Norway said with a shrug.

"Don't worry, Sweden. We're just special." Finland said with an uncharacteristic smirk.

And later that night, fed and happy (and exhausted) Iceland was standing on a chair so he could blow out the candles on that monstrous cake. Unfortunately, Finland and Denmark had tried to be artistic by stabbing the candles at odd angles. The cake now looked like an underwater mine, and eating more of it would probably have a similar effect on the digestive system. Once the smoking candles were ripped out of the cake, Sweden lifted the knife to cut it. Iceland noted Sweden's knife-wielding hand jerk ever so slightly in the direction of Denmark.

"Does 'nyone actually w'nt cake?" he asked. They had already had cake for breakfast. He was met with a chorus of "Yeahs" and in one person's case, "YEAH, BUDDY!" so he cut it and served it for the second time that day. The group ate in weary, yet content silence.

"You know, Ice," Denmark said through a mouthful of cake (Sweden and Norway exchanged rather repulsed glances), "I got you something good."

Iceland wasn't particularly pleased or amused to find that Denmark's gift to him was a 'wifebeater' shirt that featured the Icelandic flag. Finland had bought him an ant farm, though Iceland had no idea anyone would want that, but since it was a gift Finland, who had odd tastes as it was, he accepted the gift. Sweden had given Iceland two ties to wear that Iceland actually liked— both ties were stylish and chosen with good tastes. And Norway was empty handed, though he did have a well-repressed yet amused smirk on his face.

"Your present will come in the mail soon," he said cryptically.

At hearing this, Iceland tried to smile, but could only frown in bewilderment. He didn't want a present from Norway, not from the guy that spoke to strangers like friends and family like strangers. And so, when it came time for the five of them to return to their respective countries, Iceland was relieved. Denmark had to go back to work, Sweden himself had to attend several meetings with his boss, and Finland was flying straight to Tallinn to meet with Estonia. Norway too had business in Oslo. Iceland would have his privacy and peace of mind back as soon as they were gone.

"Bye, Icel'nd." Sweden said, giving Iceland a firm handshake. He gave a vague smile. "We'll meet 'gain."

"It was great to see you. Visit me sometime, all right?" Finland departed with a brief manhug and a gleaming smile.

"Ice, I'm going to miss you. If you don't visit me, I'll visit you. You cannot escape." That being said, Denmark enveloped Iceland in another bone-crushing hug that lifted poor Iceland off the ground. Denmark let go of him abruptly and forced Iceland to fist bump him. The last he saw of Denmark was a blazing smile and a manly, restrained wave good bye. He turned on the heel of his boot and disappeared. Last…Norway. The two stood around for a few seconds, waiting for one another to make the first move. Iceland sighed in annoyance. Of course Norway would be businesslike and impersonal. But Norway was the one to give Iceland a tough, tight hug with two manly pounds on the back.

"I'll see you soon, Iceland." Norway allowed a reserved smile and gently rumpled Iceland's hair.

"Bye, Norway."

Iceland wasn't a fan of goodbyes. They made him feel awkward and self conscious. Was he saying the right thing, was he being sincere enough? He watched with mixed feelings as Norway disappeared past security. He murmured, "Good riddance," and headed home, smiling as the stress of having Norway around dissipated in the crisp Icelandic air.

* * *

Writer's block raped me for this chapter, bawwww, and I'm aware that it fails. I think I need to take a hiatus from writing. But I do have next chapter done, and I like it a lot more than this one. School starts this upcoming week for me, so I'll update less often. The summer has come to a close.

To those who do review, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. By the way, if you have this story on alert, I expect a review. There is no excuse to read without reviewing.

You may have noticed that Iceland and Norway are having problems with each other. That will be addressed next chapter.

PS: I was at the supermarket and saw a puffin on a cereal box. I started laughing. And I really want to go to Iceland.


	8. Brothers

Chapter 8: It's a Trap

* * *

Iceland sat on his windowsill, chin in hand and looking very much like decoration, as puffins visited him and perched on his knees. Iceland fed them whatever he had on hand, and watched the shimmering ocean from his post at the window. Occasionally, he's relocate to the living room to play video games. Other times, he'd stray from the window and drift to his desk, where he'd doodle or pen inane little stories. There was always something to do in his house, though his maids (all plump, married, maternal middle aged women) insisted that he needed to mingle with people his age. They bustled about like hens clucking at his reclusive behavior. Often, they'd try to sit him down to discuss girls with Iceland, a topic that Iceland always evaded, whether he was with fellow males or not. His tastes and interests were very much his own, and these old women, who loved to gossip, would surely make a big deal of it. As they did everything. He was chided for speaking in English instead of Icelandic and for sleeping with his window wide open—they thought he'd catch a cold from doing so. Iceland, as a teenager, made sure to ignore everything they said, and sometimes go against what they advised. And these maids weren't his parents, so why should he listen to them? He was seventeen now, old enough to make his own decisions. After all, he'd lived alone since he could remember, and fared very well by himself. On a rainy day in late June, Iceland ventured out of his house to his mailbox. He rifled through unimportant letters until his eyes settled on one that was addressed to him, with no return address. He recognized the penmanship at once—it belonged to Norway's. Norway's script was accentuated by his tendency to cross his t's and f's very low, and his combination of cursive and print that was partially legible. Not as legible as Sweden's, not as garbled and illegible as Denmark's. But leaning toward Denmark-illegibility. Iceland opened the envelope expertly and withdrew a neat piece of stationary. He rolled his eyes, resisting a smile. Only Norway. Denmark and Finland would've texted him the invite.

_Dear Iceland,_

_I am inviting you to spend a few days in the famous Norwegian fjords with me. Your flight from Reykjavik to Bergen, Norway leaves promptly at two thirty pm on the third of July. I have paid all expenses, and I've included your boarding pass in this letter. Remember to pack lightly, and I will see you soon._

_Regards,_

_Norway_

Now that Iceland thought about it, he hadn't been invited to the fjords with Norway. He had been forced to visit, which explained the reason he sat on Bergen-bound airplane that flew over the Atlantic Ocean, awkwardly squished between a morbidly obese German man that snored loudly and a grouchy old woman that had yelled at him for stepping over her feet in an attempt to sit between them. In fact, he really had to go the bathroom. But the woman would insult him. Quite the dilemma. He still had an hour left on the plane. Back to Norway (the man). Iceland probably would've accepted the invitation (if it was an invite) to avoid any more conflicts, which were at a sort of climax between them. Iceland wasn't going to forget Norway's easy conversation with Mr. Puffin. Iceland frowned and let out an irked sigh. Mr. Puffin hadn't spoken to Iceland since them. He only laughed at him, if those obnoxious squawks were meant to be hoots of sheer amusement when Iceland prompted an explanation from him. Those screeches weren't mating calls, because, as discovered that night with Norway, Mr. Puffin was 'married'. Norway had asked, with utmost interest—"Oh, you're married?" That was a strictly personal question. And Norway never even asked Iceland commonplace questions, such as his opinions about a recent news scandal or the weather. Iceland ground his teeth in annoyance—it made no sense! Was his older brother some kind of psychopathic freak that spoke to animals? But wait…that didn't work, either. Iceland had seen Norway converse smoothly with his boss and other figures of authority. Anxiety twanged within Iceland. The fjords were in a remote place—Norway was skilled with swords and axes as a former Viking, and he, like all of the other nations involved in the World Wars, knew how to use rifles and other weapons. The possibility that Iceland was taking a plane to Bergen to face his death unsettled him. Given Norway's behavior and quirks and whimsicalities (euphemisms for homicidal tendencies), Norway killing Iceland was highly possible. That puerile thought made the hour zip by as Iceland thought of ways he could protect himself. Norway was taller, but not much heavier. His center of gravity was farther from the ground, therefore, knocking him over would be an easier task, especially when off balance while holding a rifle of sword. And if Norway planned to assassinate him at night, then Iceland wouldn't sleep. Norway, like a cobra, would likely strike at an inopportune moment for Iceland. Iceland made a mental note to himself to never have his back turned to Norway. Now, if he could only disarm Norway by getting him on the floor…but once on the ground, what could Iceland do? He wasn't going to shoot his own brother…of course, he could take the keys and drive. Drive anywhere, drive away from killer Norway. Once the plane landed, Iceland flung his duffel bag over his shoulder and stalked out of the plane and into Bergen's bustling airport. He spotted Norway standing around outside the gates, twirling car keys absentmindedly around the gloved index finger of his left hand. His dull blue eyes, half open, were focused on something slightly above him. He was likely reading the arrivals and departures. As usual, he wore his pressed navy uniform, sailor hat placed a stylish angle on his head of wavy, sleek blond hair. His gaze snapped to Iceland the second Iceland walked out of the gates. Norway gave a placid, toothless smile and approached Iceland. Iceland tried to smile, but it just looked like he was baring his teeth. He barely returned the brotherly, brusque embrace that Norway bestowed upon him.

"You've grown a little." Norway observed, sizing his younger brother up. He tried to flatten out a lock of hair that flipped up from the side of Iceland's hair, but his attempt was futile. "How are you?"

"Fine. And you?" Iceland answered perfunctorily.

"I'm well." Norway answered blandly.

End of conversation. Their conversations were always brief and superficial, mechanical. That was, until Norway revived the conversation shortly after exiting the doors to the breezy air outside. Iceland flung his duffel bag into the trunk of Norway's car and dumped himself into the front seat.

"Iceland, have you ever been to a fjord?" Norway inquired. For once, he sounded somewhat curious.

"Yeah. There's one in Akureyri." Iceland answered. Akureyri was one of the larger cities located in northern Iceland, with about seventeen thousand inhabitants.

"This one is special." Norway said.

"How so?" Iceland asked, throwing him an askance look.

"You'll see."

"Don't get any ideas, Norway. I'm not stupid. I know what you're planning."

"Is that so? Hm. What's gotten into you?" Norway asked, frowning slightly.

"I know all about your plan. I'll call the police if you dare try."

"Iceland, don't be irrational." Norway sighed. "The place we're going is so far flung the police is nowhere to be seen."

"I knew it!" Iceland fumed. "You're going to try to kill me, aren't you?"

Iceland had chosen a bad time to say that. Norway had been drinking out of a bottle of water the moment the words fled from Iceland's lips. At hearing his sharp question, Norway spewed his drink and hastily clamped a hand over his mouth. At once, he started coughing, but in between coughs Iceland heard unmistakable, nearly hysterical laughs.

"Y-You honestly thought I'd do that?" Norway asked, biting back giggles. He sobered and gazed at Iceland critically right in the eyes. Iceland felt his soul was being searched. But now that Norway pointed out the sheer idiocy in Iceland's accusation, Iceland felt a humiliated flush bloom in his cheeks.

"Well…no." he mumbled, staring down at his lap. He couldn't muster a look back at Norway. "But seeing you talked to a freaking puffin better than you do to me, I don't exactly doubt it."

"Hm. We need to have a talk, Iceland." Norway said coldly. He cast Iceland a callous, chilling glance.

"I don't want to, not with you." Iceland said, lip curling with disdain.

"We _are _going to talk about this, and that's final." Norway's tone became glacial.

"Yeah, whatever." Iceland harrumphed.

Iceland folded his arms and sat there, seething silently. He couldn't believe Norway. Iceland wondered where they were going when he raised his glare to the window. They were…somewhere remote, with many trees and winding, tight roads. Evening sun gilded the trees and thick foliage that surrounded them. Without warning, Norway veered right and followed a winding, unpaved road that led uphill. Tall trees walled them in.

"Holy crap, what was that for?" Iceland demanded, referring to Norway's sudden swerve.

"Almost missed the street." Norway replied.

"You missed the exit to your own house?" Iceland snorted. "Fail."

Norway pursed his lips in irritation but said nothing. As soon as Iceland looked out the window, Norway reeled an arm back and smacked Iceland on the arm with a force that he usually reserved for Denmark.

"Ow!" Iceland yelped. He turned blazing eyes to Norway. "What is your problem?"

"Don't disrespect me, Iceland." Norway said thinly. A malicious, disbelieving little smile had made its debut on Norway's pallid countenance. For a moment, Iceland was tempted to back down.

"You hit me. I could sue you for child abuse." Iceland threatened.

"As your legal guardian, I decide what happens here." Norway said with forced calm.

"'Legal guardian'?" Iceland spat. "Says who?"

"The DNA tests and myself. Do I need to remind you that it was your idea to have the test done?"

"You talk to animals better than you own brother, you just hit me, and you're a freak of nature. Denmark told me you talk to trolls and trolls don't exist, for your information." Iceland fumed. "I don't want to even be related to you."

"I'm fine with that. After all, no one would want you as a brother." Norway riposted

His remark stung like rubbing alcohol on an open sore. Iceland stared at him, giving him a steely violet glower of rage, incredulity, and offense. The sentence, in Norway's voice and strikingly smug tone, echoed in the chamber of Iceland's mind.

"I hate you." Iceland whispered, eyes wide. With that, he lowered out the window, pain radiating in his arm and heart.

Norway raised an eyebrow in a dubious motion as a response to Iceland's declaration and kept his bitter silence. Despite the fact he was incensed, though maybe not to Iceland's extent, his fury didn't reflect in his maneuvering. After what seemed like hours but was only fifteen minutes, Norway parked in the car in a dirt driveway. There was no house around, no establishment. Iceland would kill Norway first if he tried anything funny.

Wordlessly, Iceland withdrew his luggage from the trunk and followed Norway, who descending steep, makeshift stairs that opening up to a small clearing where a cubical, wooden house stood, overlooking a glorious fjord from high above. Trees were all around, thick and leaving a clean, crisp scent in the air. Down below the craggy side, Iceland made out a small boat tied. He backed away from the edge in case Norway decided to push him off the cliff and lumbered into the cottage. He threw his bag on the floor of a small, scantily decorated room. Norway was in the kitchen, and judging by the sounds of pots and pans, he was cooking. Iceland wasn't going to eat any of his food.

"Food is ready." Norway said curtly, appearing in the doorway of Iceland's room.

"Not hungry." Iceland muttered tersely.

At around ten thirty, Iceland pulled the covers over himself and tried to sleep. He left a shoe in the door that way he'd be alerted if Norway came to attack. Then, Iceland heard something. He opened his eyes, and saw a pair of bright green eyes in the top corner of the room. Iceland laughed at himself. He must have been exhausted. And when he looked again, they were still there, ominous, glowing. He sat up and turned on the light, but nothing was revealed. Iceland shrugged collapsed back on the pillow, only to hear heavy breathing come from underneath the bed. Iceland froze. He could've sword he heard a high pitched giggle come from somewhere nearby. Following that, a burst of white sparks erupted in the middle of the room. Under the green eyes appeared a Cheshire smile, and the breathing became raggedly and louder. Iceland looked under the bed. There was nothing there. After more peculiar phenomena, Iceland had had it. He stomped out of his room and flung the door to Norway's room open.

"Yeah, you put some strange lights in my room or something." Iceland said loudly. Norway did not stir. He continued to lay there, on his back, head tilted slightly to the side. Even in slumber his hair was still neat, and the Nordic cross barrette sitting on the bedside table caught the light of the fat white moon outside.

"Get up and deal with the weird stuff happening in my room." Iceland said, louder this time.

"I heard you the first time." Norway said. He kicked the covers off of himself and brusquely passed Iceland, marching into Iceland's room with Iceland on his tail. Norway looked around the room, fairly unimpressed. And then, he went into a spiel in Old Norse, speaking so quickly that Iceland hadn't the slightest clue what he was saying. Whatever he said worked, because a green eyed imp came from the corner. A few glowing fairies materialized in midair, and a ghoul came out from under the bed, grinning madly. Iceland wanted to throw himself off the cliff outside. This was ridiculous. He gave himself yet another pinch to make sure he was alive, and, unfortunately, he was. So Denmark hadn't lied.

Norway gave another command in Old Norse (Iceland could tell it was a command by his tone), but the imp and ghoul asked him a question that Norway replied to in a relaxed manner that he ended with a vague snicker. The ghoul disappeared, and the imp leapt out the window, leaving a few fairies that Norway spoke to in a hushed tone. They too flitted out the window at Norway's command.

"See? You did it again." Iceland said with groan. "I couldn't even tell what you were saying and you spoke to _fake creatures _better than you speak to me."

"They're not fake, Iceland. You just saw them." Norway replied testily.

"You never talk to me that way." Iceland said, voice trembling.

Norway couldn't tell whether it was out of anger or sadness, though Iceland was certainly losing his nerve. "We're discussing this right now." Norway said flatly. "Let's take a walk."

"Why would anyone want to talk to a freak like you?" Iceland said with disdain. "Just get out of my room."

"Iceland, we are discussing this." Norway said firmly. He grabbed Iceland by the sleeve of his jacket and dragged him outside. Norway began to stroll ahead, and Iceland was hesitant to follow. He paused, and looked at Iceland over his shoulder, eyebrows raised expectantly. Iceland followed Norway outside. The moon high above cast a silvery sheen on the water, the foliage, and the house itself. The grass whispered under them with each step they took, and the susurrus picked up when a breeze rustled the trees and meadows, creating a beautiful counterpoint with the murmur of fjord's water. Fireflies dotted their surrounding with flickers of yellow light that reminded Iceland of sparks leaping from a fire. The velvety sky was sprinkled and brushed with glimmering crystal stars. Despite the darkness enhanced by the trees, Norway was calm, and navigated through the trees masterfully, checking to make sure Iceland was behind him every so often. Norway suddenly stopped walking and sat down on a point that was likely the highest near the fjord. He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankle. Iceland sat down about five feet away from his pulled his knees up to his chest indignantly. The thought of pushing Norway off the cliff came to mind.

"What a beautiful night." Norway remarked, raising his eyes to the spectacular moon. The moonlight illuminated Norway's pallid face and cast a cool glow in his impassive, cadet blue eyes. He'd normally feel refreshed in the fjords. But with an irritated Iceland next to him, he was weighed down with concerns.

"Not really. You dragged me out here." Iceland grumbled. "I don't want to talk to you."

"What is bothering you?" Norway asked gently. He turned to face his younger brother, who grabbing fistfuls of grass and letting the blades float away in the breeze. Iceland refused to look Norway in the eye.

"I already told you." Iceland muttered petulantly.

"Iceland, if you don't tell me what's wrong, we're going to be here until noon tomorrow." The threat was off-putting, but Norway would keep that promise. Iceland gave a histrionic sigh and flung a fistful of grass back down on the ground. He threw a piercing glare at Norway.

"You are the worst brother ever." Iceland said this with such scathing conviction that Norway's facial expression changed slightly into a mild grimace. "You ignore me. You _spoke _to fake creatures. And also to Mr. Puffin. You hit me." Iceland showed Norway the mark on his arm, a vague pink color. Then, Iceland became diffident—he looked down at the grass and was distinctly annoyed to see that his vision was being blurred by warm tears. He felt like such a weakling. Iceland drew a shaky breath. "A-And you said that no one would ever want me as a brother."

Iceland rested his forehead on his knees and bit back sobs as the tears ran down his cheeks. He didn't admit it to himself, but Norway had indeed done it with that comment. Damn Norway. Everything would've been better if Iceland had rejected the invite.

"I said that?" Norway asked, appalled.

"Mmhmm."

"I'm sorry, Iceland." Norway said sincerely. He moved closer to Iceland wrapped an arm around Iceland, patting his back. "I didn't mean what I said."

"You did. If you d-didn't then you would've actually t-talked to me." Iceland mumbled. Just thinking about it made the tears fall thicker and faster. Iceland was already lonely (but happy, he claimed) as it was, far from the rest of Europe. Just a solitary volcanic island floating on the roiling northern seas that guaranteed perpetual privacy. It was not uncommon for Iceland to not say a word for over a week, and Iceland was content with this lifestyle of constant contemplation. On the days he'd go out to the town, he'd not deny the pernicious potion of jealousy that bubbled up inside him when he saw a happy family on the street. Norway was his only family member; the only person Iceland remotely trusted.

"I think the lack of communication between us is mutual." Norway explained. "However, it is my fault for not talking to you as much as I should. I have no reason for this, but I realize that I should treat you better. I apologize— Iceland. Look at me." Norway said gently, giving Iceland a gentle pat on the back to rouse him. He moved away from him and resumed his post at his original place.

"No." Iceland grumbled.

"Iceland." Norway said firmly.

"Ugh, what do you want now?" Iceland demanded. He finally lifted his head off of his knees and shot Norway a piercing glare. Norway was a bit stricken by the look of raw anguish alive on Iceland's moonlit countenance, by the tears that ran in rivulets down his cheeks, by the pained quaver of his normally smooth voice. Norway winced slightly. He couldn't stand to think that was because of him. He had inadvertently torn the collected Iceland to bits.

"You are my little brother, Iceland—don't deny it. I couldn't hate you even if I tried, and…" Norway paused. Why, he wanted to know, was there the sting of tears in his own eyes as he gazed at his little brother? He cleared his throat authoritatively "I couldn't hate you even if I tried. If I remember correctly, you were the one that said you hated me."

"I didn't mean it." Iceland said, wiping new tears away with the back of his hand. A sob escaped him. Of he didn't mean it, he couldn't. Norway was his only family, and he'd not forget the man (teenager, then) that cuddled Iceland so lovingly on that fierce, wintry day many years ago. "S-Sorry."

Norway gave a wavering smile before he had to turn away. Iceland had turned out to be his weakness. Then without warning, he grabbed Iceland and forced him into an embrace.

"It's all right, Iceland." Norway said quietly, releasing his brother. Iceland had noticed Norway's teary blue eyes, but only a glimpse. He wanted to ask what caused the sudden emotional breakdown (a breakdown for Norway is not a breakdown for normal people), but at the same time Iceland didn't want to know. Norway discreetly rubbed his eyes and said, "Let's go back to the house—one more thing, Iceland. This never happened." Norway said, reverting to his drawl.

"What happened?" Iceland chuckled. Iceland didn't want to remember this moment either. Too awkward, too emotional. Neither of which made for favorable situations in Iceland's opinion. Norway's feeling toward situations like those were reciprocal.

"Right." Norway said. He flashed Iceland a rare grin—for someone who rarely smiled, he had an incredibly natural, shining smile— and tousled Iceland's hair. "Last one to the house is a fat troll."

For a moment, Iceland was tempted to ask if Norway really was friends with a troll, but shrugged it off, as he had a race to win. Knowing Norway's idiosyncrasies and eccentricities, he was friends with a lot of other things. But that wouldn't change the fact that Iceland was, and always would be his baby brother.

* * *

Drama. Oh, bawwwww. Nah, I suck at writing stuff like this. Yet I couldn't resist. Norway/Iceland bro love had to be written.

But there's more to come.

As always, please do review.


	9. Dragons

Chapter 9: Tales and Tails

A/N: Surprise! Actually, the fact I got inspiration for this was more of a surprise for me than you.

* * *

Sweden answered the phone the way he normally did that morning. Or night. Whatever. He wasn't supposed to be awake at the hour of one in the morning, but he was.

"Hullo?"

"Good morning, is this Mr. Oxenstierna?" a upbeat female voice said.

"Yes…"

"I'm calling from the Rigshospitalet in Copenhagen, Denmark, on behalf of Mr.—" static "—He was injured in an accident earlier today and you were listed as his second person to contact."

"What happ'ned?" Sweden asked, brow furrowing.

"He was hit by a bus."

"That so?" Sweden almost laughed. But he didn't want to scare the nurse. "'s he 'll right?"

"He sustained a few lacerations, cracked ribs, and broke his ankle, but he is expected to make a smooth recovery." The nurse responded.

"So what'm I s'posed to do?" Sweden asked. He paused. Hanatamago was pawing at his ankle, little beady eyes looking at him eagerly.

"Well…" the nurse trailed off. "He says he wants you to visit right away because his other contact is not answering."

Sweden could hear Denmark clamoring in the background. And then, there was a scratching sound on the other line.

"Sweden!" Denmark said breathlessly. "Hi! Yeah, I'm in the hospital."

"B'lieve me, 'M just as happy 's you are." Sweden responded coldly. Denmark was likely under the spell of some medication. He sounded like a pumped up version of his normal, hyperactive self.

"Come visit. Norway won't answer his phone, Sven is in Thailand, and I'm bored here." Denmark demanded.

Norway never answered his phone. He rarely responded to texts and checked his email once a month. How the hell he stayed in contact with his country's officials Sweden did not know. Basically, Norway was always incommunicado.

"Do I have t'?" Sweden muttered disdainfully. "'Nd are y' on drugs?"

"Yes and yes, painkillers." Denmark replied.

"Fine." Sweden sighed.

;

;

Their stay in the fjord was cut very short, for five hours into the morning Norway showed up in Iceland's room shaking him awake rather brusquely. Apparently, Denmark had been hit by a bus while bike riding drunk in Copenhagen, which required an emergency flight to Copenhagen, for Norway was first on the list of people to call in the event that Denmark had been hurt, killed, or arrested. Norway had ignored the first fourteen phone calls from an unknown number from Denmark.

Upon arriving at Rigshospitalet, where Denmark was locked up ("In the psychiatric ward," Norway had said), the brothers looked like homeless people. Iceland had an excuse—he was allowed to look bad, since he was a teenager, but Norway's mood had gone south for two reasons: first, he thought he looked bad. In reality, he looked fine. His hair didn't look tangled or disheveled, in looked windswept, falling in neat, wavy layers on his head. And his clothes were barely wrinkled. The second reason was Denmark's stupidity, which had ruined his time of peace in the majestic fjords.

When they arrived, however, Sweden was standing outside Denmark's room. He was shaking all over and covering his face with his hands, which prompted Norway to ask what had happened. This revealed that Sweden was shaking with mirth and trying not to laugh at Denmark's situation, but failing epically. His reason for stepping outside to laugh was to avoid scaring the nurse, who was inside dealing with a cheerful, noisy Denmark well under the effect of all kinds of medications. They were informed that Denmark had a procedure done to correct his broken leg and another operation to alleviate some internal bleeding. Not that it was evident. Denmark was extremely energetic, humming his national anthem when Norway and Iceland walked into the room. He almost leapt out of the bed when he saw them, thankfully, Norway easily pinned him down to with with his hand so that the nurse could finish drawing Denmark's bright blood.

After a week, Denmark was released.

And now it was mid August.

Norway had ambitiously and reluctantly invited them all to the fjords that he and Iceland barely had a chance to enjoy. They hadn't been in Bergen for even two hours before problems were already brewing. The five of them were sitting outside, eating at a restaurant on the Hanseatic wharf. Sweden sipped beer and was indecisive with the menu (he was the reason they hadn't ordered their food yet) while Norway watched the ocean. Denmark was scoping ladies out. Iceland just sat there, bored, watching the regal, red Norwegian flags on the wharfwave in the breeze. Finland, sensing the table's tension, raised the topic of mythical creatures so that Norway would say something. Norway was supposed to be the host, but he failed at his duty.

"Dragons and beautiful creatures." Norway opined. He would have been remotely believable if he hadn't spoken the sentence in such a flat monotone.

"Dragons don't exist." Iceland scoffed. Honestly. Dragons? Dragons were so…World of Warcraft, and all those other scifi-fantasy games that were absolutely ridiculous.

Iceland was met with awed, baffled silence. All eyes, cadet, azure, teal, and lilac were on him.

"_What _did you just say?" Denmark said, sounding like he had been dealt a nasty blow to the diaphragm. He eyes were wider than Iceland had ever seen them, eyebrows up high in genuine surprise. Norway, next to him, had clasped his hands so tightly that his fingers were turning white, and his eyes were more open than usual. His intense, critical stare, never left Iceland's face.

"Say that one more time," Norway said in a threatening lower register. For a moment, Iceland wanted to recant his statement, but then he switched his stare to Denmark, who looked so comical with his mouth hanging open.

"Dragons are fake. As in, nonexistent, as in, fairy tales." Iceland said, this time more forcefully, motivated by Norway's subtly twitching eye. Sweden had finally taken offense to that statement. His head snapped up from the restaurant menu. Sweden's characteristic facial expression was none at all. But his and his expression at hearing Iceland's denial of dragons could be best described as a severely disgusted, maniacal frown with parted lips.

"Hmph." Denmark turned his nose up at Iceland. "You wouldn't know, Iceland. I've been bitten my dragons, and so have Norway and Sweden."

"Oh yeah?" Iceland smirked and folded his arms defensively. "Have you been attacked by dragons, Finland?"

"Well…" Finland gave an awkward, pained smile. "Technically, yes."

"You don't believe in Níðhöggr or in the landvættir that are painted on your crest?" Norway questioned pointedly. "And you dare call yourself Icelandic?"

"Do you think I'm ten? I don't believe in that. You people are so messed up." Iceland said under his breath. Of course he didn't believe in them. The landvættir were seen on coins of Icelandic Krona and on Iceland's coat of arms and they were known as the four guardians. It was purely symbolic. And yet again, Iceland wondered why he dared associate with his brother in public. A few bystanders were overhearing their conversation.

"Norway was messed up for a good month or two after that dragon nearly severed his arm." Denmark said somberly. "Show him the scars, Norway."

"No. Do not take your shirt off in public." Iceland said.

"'t was bad," Sweden mumbled, "Norge slept f'r weeks 'nd didn't w'lk f'r a m'nth. 'e did, howe'er, sl'y th' drag'n."

"I didn't slay him," Norway said as he shed his blue cardigan and tied it around his waist. He began to unbutton his shirt. "I only stabbed his throat so that he would retreat. Níðhöggr lives on. He visited me in the fjords a few years ago, and I speak to him every so often."

"Níðhöggr texted me the other day, actually." Denmark tugged at the collar of his smirk and smirked rather self assuredly. Iceland wondered if the confident smirk was because he had been supposedly texted by a dragon or because a good-looking girl had just walked by.

Sweden rolled his eyes at Denmark's pathetic attempt at trolling. Dragons don't text. Then again, maybe Denmark wasn't joking. Sweden would ask Níðhöggr later. In fact, Sweden had a pleasant chat with Níðhöggr a few months ago. The two bonded over a mid afternoon snack. Of course, Sweden was alone deep in the Swedish countryside, completely undisturbed. It would be stupid for a dragon or any other mythical creature to show up in a big city. And thankfully, he was only in touch with one mythical creature. Any more than one would throw him into the batshit insane category of people right with Norway, who was in correspondence with every single fairy, troll, dragon, or imp that had ever existed. Then again, it was Norway who penned the ancient Norse mythology some thousand years ago based on the wild beings he'd seen on his adventures. The first creature Norway had seen was a fairy that Norway—Sweden privately thought—was madly in love with. He was known as a sort of philosopher in the Viking Ages when he wasn't out in the fjords and mountains conquering and slaying armies.

"See this?" Denmark demanded. He pointed to a series of markings on the taut, pale skin over Norway's right shoulder blade. Sickly purple curved scars were left behind from the dragon's bite, and the rest of the scars trekked all the way under his arm back around. Each scar was rough and knotted and the whole area of the bite had the looked of a burn scar, knotted and rough and shiny.

"They were huge and ugly scars a few hundred years ago, but now they look better." Denmark said in a scholarly tone. "We Vikings have scars everywhere. Sweden has a really awesome one running from his hip to the inside of his knee on his left leg."

The lovely incision Denmark referred to had been dealt by Grendel, and Denmark had nearly been disemboweled by Grendel's mother on that very night. This was before Beowulf showed up to deal with the monsters.

"Whatever," Iceland murmured, letting a derisive laugh slip.

Finland smiled sympathetically. He so wanted to tell his stories, especially the time he was shot right through hip by a sniper rifle. The exit wound and the surgical scars were visible, and x-rays revealed a series of wires that served to keep his smashed hipbone together. Oh, nineteen forty.

"I 'member th' time I killed Fafn'r. Fafn'r 'ad sharp cl'ws," Sweden said thoughtfully. "A vicious one 'e was."

"Sure," Iceland yawned conspicuously and folded his arms.

"'e was a all r'ght man till 'is jealousy t'rned 'im to a drag'n." Sweden added. Was the alcohol speaking for him?

"Uh-huh."

"Iceland," Finland said sternly. His smile had faded. "I highly recommend listening to them. I didn't believe in dragons either until Sweden took me to its lair six centuries ago. I've been scarred. Literally. Dragon flame hurts like hell."

"That's because it _is_ from hell," Denmark said with a nod.

"First of all, you people suck at protecting yourselves." Iceland could hardly believe how many injuries these people had. Denmark was about to strip down and flash his chest, a canvas of mutilation, and Sweden was inadvertently running a thumb along his pants just over the wound Denmark had described earlier.

"Protecting yourself from a dragon is about as useful as putting a seatbelt on while driving drunk," Denmark said flatly with an extravagant wave of his hand. "You're screwed anyway. It's a stalemate."

"Not that Denmark would know what driving drunk is like," Finland chuckled. Finland was quite familiar with that, actually. He was just good at downplaying drunkenness.

"So what you mean to tell me," Iceland dropped his voice. A cop was passing by, staring at them. "is that you people survived these attacks or whatever and no one else did?"

"Correct." Norway said. "But, Iceland, the dragons didn't usually attack us."

"We 'mbushed them," Sweden said. "Once we found 'em."

"Way to use common sense." Iceland said sarcastically.

"Basically, we'd go to a village and the villagers would tell us that they're pissing their pants because some creature was attacking them. So, like the fearless Vikings we were, we'd deal with whatever was the problem." Denmark said. "In our shining armor, with axes and broadswords and all that awesome stuff."

"'nd then there w's th' time th't a few wyrms 'ttacked us." Sweden said.

"Jörmungandr." Norway added.

There was a collective gasp from the group, as if Norway had uttered some sort of blasphemy.

"Th' most terrifying th'ng I've ev'r seen." Sweden said in a low voice. His eyes hardened.

"Do you know who Jörmungandr is, Iceland?" Denmark asked in a very grave tone.

"Some seamonster, right?"

"Right. He was massive. Largest thing I've ever seen, and brutal, too." Denmark extended his well muscled arms to illustrate his point.

"He raised hellish storms while we were at sea." Norway added.

Iceland noticed that Norway, Sweden, and Denmark's eyes were glazed over with memories and each of the men was lost in thought. Denmark was grinning at some random reminiscence, Sweden was discreetly mouthing something, frowning in concentration, while Norway gazed at the placid sea.

"Okay." Iceland raised an eyebrow. "Show me a dragon and then I'll believe."

"You want to see a dragon? You'll see a dragon, all right." Denmark thundered, pounding the wooden table with a tight fist. "I wonder what Níðhöggr will do to you when he finds out you're a nonbeliever."

;

;

Iceland was smushed between Denmark and Finland. Denmark made very positive, jubilant remarks about the mountains the whole time, since he land was flat as could be, and Norway was more sullen than usual and disappointed that Iceland was a nonbeliever while Sweden said nothing (typical) and Finland napped.

Iceland recognized the surroundings. They were on the way to Norway's fjord house, the same one they had stayed at for barely twelve hours before flying to Copenhagen. Noon sun was bright and braving the thick canopy overhead so that an interesting pattern of light appeared on Iceland's lap. Fluffy clouds were suspended by translucent strings as they aimlessly floated across the smooth sky and healthy, emerald green foliage soaked the abundant sunlight. A sweet wind slipped into the car through the open windows, introducing the rejuvenating aroma of freedom.

Just as Iceland was dozing off, however, he slammed into Denmark, on his left, and almost yelped as Finland's weight pressed against him for the few seconds it took for Norway to veer right into the dirt trail.

"Did you miss the exit again?" Iceland asked with a snicker.

"Yes. Don't judge me." Norway said. His cadet blue eyes were watching Iceland curiously in the rearview mirror.

"You kind of fail with directions." Iceland said.

"Norge's excell'nt w'th d'rections." Sweden corrected. "'e's jus' distract'ble."

Norway could look up at the sky on a cloud night and determine exactly where they were, the constellations above (even with cloud cover), direction of wind, and more. He seemed to have a built-in compass.

"Austria is the one with no sense of direction. He gets lost in his own cities." Norway muttered.

"I didn't know you were friends with Austria." Denmark said, rubbing the side of his head that had slammed into the window.

"I am good friends with him." Norway confirmed.

Iceland didn't know Norway had real friends besides his mythical buddies, but friendship with Austria was feasible, now that it had been mentioned. Though Austria was almost always in a huffy mood and Norway was calmer.

After a bit of trekking through trees and down a makeshift set of stairs, Norway's wooden fjord cottage came into view. Norway let them into his house.

All of the windows were wide open, inviting the wind to come inside, with a crisp scent tagging along. The rustling of the trees and tall grass provided a musical ambience that went well with the small cottage and timeworn furniture.

Iceland was leaned cautiously over the windowsill, peering at the majestic, dark waters of the fjord below. They were incredibly high up. And in the daylight, he could make up how high he was, and that old dinghy moored to a narrow little dock down below.

"How beautiful." Finland remarked with a content sigh.

"Mmhmm," Denmark agreed. He shoved Iceland aside and leapt up onto the sill, making himself comfortable. "I can feel magic here, you know?"

"Don't tell me you're into that crap too." Iceland huffed.

"Nah, not like your brother—I don't see fairies or talk to trolls. Just Níðhöggr. But don't you feel something special here? I can't put my finger on it. Ah, for simplicity's sake, let's just say there's a lot of hygge here." Denmark laughed heartily.

"I feel 't." Sweden murmured.

"Hey, Norway, is that your pram down there?" Denmark asked.

"Yes. We'll be going down there right now, actually." Norway answered.

They followed him down a rugged path effortlessly, as all of them were relatively athletic and agile. Iceland was a bit worried he'd take a final plunge to the dark waters below if he missed a step, but Norway was close behind. Iceland sighed, irritated. It seemed Norway was too unconventional—or cheap—to have a staircase or something built so that they didn't have to gamble for their lives. But, the more Iceland thought about it, the more he realized that Norway was just strange.

Norway strode across the flimsy boards that lined the dock and Iceland had a bad feeling about the board that Norway stood on, which yielded and bent under Norway's weight. Norway appeared not to notice and lithely stepped into the flat-bottomed pram. Denmark did a little jump into the boat, which caused Norway to lose his balance and nearly fall into the water. Norway snatched an oar from the bottom of the boat and whacked Denmark's head with it, which elicited a howl of pain from Denmark. Sweden and Finland stepped into the boat like normal people, and Iceland decided to mimic them. He made himself as comfortable as he could on a wooden board next to Finland.

Norway had the oars at the ready and Sweden comfortably grasped another set of oars. Denmark too wanted to row, which earned him another clout from Norway, who was seething silently. Without a word, the two began to row, and their expertise was uncanny and very obvious. The two rowed like…well, like Vikings, with those powerful, in-sync strokes that propelled them quickly along the still water. And yet, they rowed with such elegance, such poise, for each stroke was a single fluid movement, smooth as the waters they navigated that afternoon. Norway and Sweden made rowing look effortless. Iceland dipped a few fingers into the chilly water and looked up at the craggy cliffs that closed them in. What a nice place.

"It's been a while s'nce I r'wed." Sweden almost smiled. Five hundred years was only a while to them, as nations. Five hundred years of memories. Of the five of them, Denmark was the oldest at twenty five years old in human age, followed by twenty three year old Norway. Sweden was twenty one; Finland, twenty, and Iceland had just turned seventeen. Oddly enough, Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and Iceland all had birthdays within one month.

"I wouldn't have guessed, Sweden. You row very well." Finland said flatly.

"I still have calluses from those days." Norway remarked.

"S'me 'ere." Sweden admitted.

"Oh, me too." Denmark smiled and held his hands out to Iceland and Finland. But his hands were unblemished, save for a curved cut at the base of his thumb. Finland and Iceland searched for calluses but could find none.

"Touch my hand. You'll feel them right away."

Iceland ran a finger along the part of skin just above the palm, where he felt the firm pieces of skin. Ew.

"They're antiques." Denmark chuckled. "But I'm pretty sure mine are here to stay, since I ride my bike so often. Plus, they're cool, like battle scars." He paused to gaze at the oars greedily. "Are we there yet, Norway?"

"Almost." Norway replied.

Half an hour later, the four of them followed Norway up to the highest point of the whole fjord. The sky was closer, the air thinner. Each breath felt like a privilege. Among the tall green grass there was an odd round circle of dirt, five meters or so in diameter. Norway approached the site and tapped the edge of the circle with his foot. Without warning, the dirt collapsed and revealed a black crevasse. Norway bent over the abyss and called the dragon's name. He waited. Nothing.

"Don't make me come down there." Norway threatened, sounding very much like the old maids that worked at Iceland's house. "There you are, Níðhöggr." Norway said.

At hearing its name, the ancient dragon rose out of the deep hole in the ground, stretching its glorious, dark wings, and surveying the visitors with its glimmering, golden eyes and landing without a sound on the emerald meadow. His long tail swept from side to side like a pendulum. Denmark had run up to Níðhöggr and wrapped his arms around the dragon's long, snaking neck, and Sweden was patting his scaly leg affectionately.

"Ah, Norway, Sweden, and Denmark." Níðhöggr spoke in a resounding, heavily accented voice that carried the same cadence as Norway's. Iceland could hear the Old Norse in the dragon's accent. "How good it is to see you all again. You are well, I assume?"

"The same to you, Níðhöggr." Norway replied with a slight nod.

Iceland was transfixed, for the dragon's golden, burning eyes had flickered right to Iceland.

"He looks just like you, Norway." Níðhöggr said with a roar that sounded like a laugh or vice versa. "But you've never looked so scared. What is wrong with Iceland? He should know me. I visit his land often."

Iceland breathed deeply. He had forgotten to take a breath for a moment.

"Now do you believe?" Norway questioned under his breath. An ill-repressed, smug smirk was creeping onto Norway's countenance.

"Y-Yeah." Iceland forced the word out of his mouth. He pinched himself. Ouch. This was nowhere near as bad as the Mr. Puffin situation, or those imps and fairies that snuck up on Iceland the last time he was in the fjord. This was a _dragon_. They were the subject of legends and fables and reverence. What had Iceland done to deserve this? He was just a teenager with common sense. Why was he surrounded by weird people? Níðhöggr was terrifying and he wasn't even too large. His face was sharp and pointed, tendrils of smoke seeped from his nostrils. He had a row of sharp, pointed teeth that leaked venom. It was that set of teeth that almost killed Norway.

And Norway succinctly explained their reason for visiting.

"Well, no matter. I would not hurt the brother of the Kingdom of Norway." Níðhöggr said thoughtfully. "He surely believes in me now. Is that right, Iceland?"

"Yeah." Iceland answered.

The great dragon laughed thunderously. It was unclear whether he was laughing at Iceland or giggling at the sensation of being tickled, courtesy of Denmark. Sweden was glaring at Denmark. What gall he had.

"Visit me again, will you, Norway?" Níðhöggr said. "And you too, Sweden. By the way, Denmark, texting or whatever you call it is difficult."

Sweden suddenly looked like a pie had been thrown at his face: not at all amused. Denmark waggled his eyebrows rather proudly at Sweden. So he hadn't been trolling.

"Certainly, Níðhöggr." Norway replied earnestly.

"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to Yggdrasill." Níðhöggr said with a terrifying but absolutely elated grin. "Farvel, farväl, and kveðjum."

With that, he soared into the air and plunged back into the crevasse, long, spiked tail trailing behind him. The dirt rose back up and became solid ground so that no evidence of a dragon remained.

"Níðhöggr pretty cool," Denmark said with a Níðhöggr-like grin.

Sweden nodded in agreement. Finland only smiled. He wasn't particularly keen on dragons.

"What did you think, Iceland?" Norway questioned, cadet blue eyes scouring Iceland's face.

"Uh…" Iceland rubbed his eyes. He was dumbstruck. "Honestly?"

"Yes."

"Holy shit. A dragon." Iceland muttered. "That's what I was thinking. I was also wondering how I allow myself to be seen with you in public."

Norway gave a breathy laugh and patted Iceland's back in a brotherly manner. But Iceland didn't know there was one more motive to the visit. Níðhöggr was associated with immortality, and as nations, they were, technically, immortal. They'd suffer the worst of hardships, wars, and strife but never die. And they would live on for thousands of years until life became tedious. But they could do nothing about it.

"It's been enough for one day. Back to the cottage." Norway said.

* * *

...I lied. I guess I'm not done with this one.

Hygge is Danish for coziness, absence of stress, tranquility. Kind of. There's not a direct translation. It's something you have to experience.

Níðhöggr, in Norse mythology, basically chillaxes at the root of this tree (Yggdrasill) and eats dead people. He deals with immortality.

Research was fun for this.

I apologize for the crackiness of this chapter, but Norse mythology is badass. And I love dragons.

If you hate it, I'll remove this chapter right away. I feel like I'm letting everyone down...

Reviews will raise inspiration, so fire them at me.


	10. Rowing

Chapter 10: To be or Not to be

* * *

After meeting up with Níðhöggr , the absolutely terrifying but friendly dragon, Sweden and Norway rowed everyone back to the cottage. They almost flew over the fjord's deep waters, and no matter how much Iceland stared at the rippled, navy blue, he couldn't get tired of it. There was something about these waters that the ocean did not have, nor the many geysers and streams in his land. The fjord's waters teemed with something that Iceland could not put his finger on.

But now, two weeks after that, Iceland was in Oslo, floating in a tiny green dinghy on the ocean. Denmark and Norway rowed as Denmark made nice conversation with anyone who would reply.

Oslo looked very nice that afternoon, as the bright emerald trees gleamed in the gracious August sunlight. The buildings were colorful cakes mounted on a platter of cobblestones. Iceland was actually quite hungry. Hungrier than normal, anyway, since hunger seemed to be an ubiquitous visitor due to his age.

But he would rather be in Reykjavik. He was only there for five days before Denmark showed up and abducted him. Indeed, Denmark had showed up at Iceland's house one morning looking spiffy in his military uniform. Denmark had flown in from Nuuk, Greenland (he was supposedly conducting business there, and not the good kind—Denmark looked drained and haggard, but masked such feelings masterfully). He charmed Iceland's maids, who let him in and served him cake, even though Iceland had given a stringent order to never let anyone in the house. Iceland went downstairs for breakfast, and the next thing he knew he was soaring over the North Atlantic en route to Oslo and sitting in first class next to Denmark. Denmark attracted many looks in his well-fitted uniform, and was blissful with all the attention.

Iceland's brooding was interrupted by Norway.

"Níðhöggr liked you," Norway said out of the blue.

"Is that a good thing?" Iceland questioned, raising an eyebrow. He wasn't sure he wanted a dragon of death hovering nearby because of fondness.

"Of course," Norway replied loftily.

"Wait. Isn't Níðhöggr the one that almost killed you?" Iceland asked.

"I've been almost killed many times, Iceland," Norway said evasively.

Sweden leaned close to Iceland and whispered, "Níðhöggr _did _alm'st kill Norge."

"Back in the day, Norway was crazy." Denmark explained with a pompous wave of his hand. Memories shone in his bright blue eyes. "He'd kill anything that defied him."

"That was you, Denmark." Norway said flatly.

"No way—I was nice." Denmark replied. "Sweden was the ruthless one."

"D'n't g pointin' fingers," Sweden said darkly, glowering at Denmark over the rims of his glasses. "'r I'll be pointin' sw'rds at y'."

"Oh, really?" Denmark smirked. "Challenge accepted."

"Yeah, whatever. No one cares that you people conquered the seas or whatever." Iceland mumbled. "Man, I expect to hear something about Hyrule or Ganondorf or Zelda next."

Strike two for Iceland. The oars "slipped" from Norway's hands, Denmark stopped rowing altogether and turned his whole body around to face Iceland. Sweden simply balled his hands up into tight knuckles and went a little red in the face. Finland had, long ago, declared neutrality in these matters. He had proclaimed neutrality some eight or nine centuries ago when he committed the faux pas of actually saying that he didn't believe in the Norse gods out loud during a rather rowdy bacchanal. Not only was he almost slain, burned at stake, and stabbed, Finland was chased out of the village. (Finland escaped the fatal torture because the partygoers were too drunk to run after him—and Finland was a notoriously speedy runner).

"Do we have to show you a faerie, too, or should we throw him into the sea and call Jörmungandr?" Denmark snapped.

"I'm not saying I'm a nonbeliever," Iceland said calmly. He suppressed an eye roll. These people were so touchy about their Viking days. "I'm saying that you guys are fighting over who was the most badass. Newsflash: you're not Vikings anymore."

Iceland was met with mutinous silence until Norway spoke up.

"Once a Viking, always a Viking." Norway said somberly. This phrase was well received by the others, and while he spoke it, Norway made sure to aim a glowing, foreboding gaze at Iceland. Iceland lowered back evenly. He wasn't going to let Norway win this one.

"I second that." Sweden and Denmark said in unison. "We have battle scars to prove it."

"Not this again…" Iceland groaned.

Iceland felt a warm hand touch his arm and looked up to see Finland, staring pointedly at him.

"Drop the subject. Just trust me on this one." Finland chuckled.

"They're kind of strange." Iceland said. He felt idiotic for not acknowledging their eccentricities earlier. The whimsicalities of Sweden, Norway, and Denmark had passed right over him before because hadn't spent as much time with them. But now, since he saw them quite often, Iceland had really begun to notice quirks and habits that made them undesirable to be with in public. He wasn't going to forget Norway's stripping just to show some fancy scar from a dragon.

"It's endearing, though, isn't it?" Finland said with an apologetic gleam to his eyes. He gestured toward Norway, who was staring intensely at the horizon as if some dream or drug trip was unfolding before his eyes.

"Not really, no." Iceland said. "They're grown men."

"But young at heart, and that's very important for nations like us." Finland pointed out.

"I guess." Iceland reluctantly agreed. Then something else came to mind. "But wait a minute—Finland, do Moomins exist in real life?"

Moomins were Finland's other obsession, besides Hanatamago, salmiakki, saunas, and Christmas. It then struck Iceland that Finland was pretty weird himself. And Finland only smiled in response to the question. Yes, it was one of those smug, uncharacteristic smiles that rarely appeared on Finland's face.

"Now, Iceland, after all this mess, would I really tell you?" Finland said. But then, Finland looked depressed. "I miss Tove so much."

Luckily, the voyage ended right as Norway moored dinghy to a small dock. Iceland was reminded of the fjords, where, upon returning from visiting the dragon, they still had a craggy cliff to scale. But up top was not a cottage but Norway's actual house.

The wooden boards bent under Sweden's weight, but nobody seemed to notice the splintering sounds as they walked over each board. Iceland followed the others through a thicket of foliage and up to the back entrance to Norway's house. After fiddling with the keys for a while, the door was finally unlocked. But as soon as Norway eased the door open, a morbidly obese imp scampered out of the house, wailing and prophesying something, hysterical. And nobody was remotely surprised by this at all. Finland said hello, Sweden glanced at it, and Denmark laughed when the fat imp tripped over its own feet and fell on its face. Not even Iceland was unsettled by seeing an hysterical imp scamper out of Norway's house like a bat out of hell. The imp rolled around on the ground for a bit, speaking in garbled Old Norse, until Norway commanded it to shut up and go away.

All in a day's work.

Norway's house was quite popular for three reasons: he had tasty food in his kitchen, his house smelled really good, and there were plenty of secret rooms and places to explore. The final reason had been to fed Iceland's ears as well as curiosity by Denmark, who promised to take Iceland on an adventure in Norway's house. Iceland planned on bringing the sensible Finland with him just in case.

Norway gave them a basic, absentminded tour of the house. It was then Denmark asked to visit Norway's room, so Norway reluctantly agreed and led them to a room at the end of the second floor's Western corridor. The door was ajar, and Norway simply tapped the door with the toe of his boot to open it wider and let everyone in.

At once, Finland and Sweden began to fidget with discomfort, as the two were notorious neat freaks that balked at the sight of a cluttered house. But Iceland didn't mind, although he certainly didn't expect Norway's room to look this bad.

It was spacious yet comfortable. The walls were a deep, crimson red. All the furniture was made of some dark wood, walnut, Iceland assumed. But Iceland knew exactly what made the room feel so homey and welcoming. There was an incredible amount of clutter in Norway's room. Clothing, ranging from military uniforms to sweaters and designer jeans were slung around the posts of his king size bed. Norway's bed was a wreck, with the sheets coming off, revealing the mattress. Blankets in varying shades of dark blue, heaped at the foot of the bed, threatening to slip off the bed as they hovered above the spotless, smooth wood floors. Pillows had been set or drifted at strange angles near the headboard, and Iceland counted seven pillows.

On Norway's bedside table a lamp stood precariously close to the edge, for books and tomes alike were stacked precariously on every available space on the table. Like the star on a Christmas tree, a glass of white wine topped a particularly high stack of books. The books were timeworn, featuring yellow pages and tiny, grainy font. Iceland was able to note this because there was a book resting open on Norway's bed.

Large windows let light slant freely into the room. No curtains, as Norway was a firm believer and fond of the 'early to bed, early to rise' and 'the early bird gets the worm' maxims. Rarely did he sleep in past seven or eight. Norway used the morning hours as a time of uninterrupted meditation and reflection.

A massive bookshelf scaling from floor to ceiling claimed a significant part of the northern wall. Books were jammed tightly together. It was starting to become increasingly obvious that Norway was an avid bookworm. Iceland expected this, since Norway had the characteristic dreaminess but firm grasp of reality that writers often displayed. And since he was the one that penned Norse mythology and other tales, Iceland wasn't surprised at all. Conveniently placed, there was a sitting area close by. A dress shirt was flung over an armrest and a pair of black leather boots rested on the floor just by the leg of an armchair. Mounted on the opposite wall, a shelf displayed odd artifacts.

A sleek laptop resided on Norway's desk, barricaded by stacks of official papers, letters, and folders and some more books, with pens and pencils strewn all over the desk. Kroner acted as paper weights on determinedly crumpled banknotes. There was a plate of food from earlier that morning at the desk's edge. The final touch was majestic Norwegian flag, pinned against the wall. Funnily enough, Iceland had the Icelandic flag set up the same way in his room.

A mirror hung on the wall, just over a dresser with more untidiness. Clothing, clean and folded. An umbrella, along with an unopened bottle of beer, car keys, and if Iceland's vision wasn't tricking him, a relatively nondescript sword some one hundred centimeters in length. But his eyes were drawn away from the dresser by a particular painting on Norway's wall.

Iceland crept closer to the date painting. Iceland would've laughed because Norway was wearing tights if the subject matter of the painting wasn't so striking. A teenage Norway—appearing gravely stolid, perhaps even more than today— sat in an elaborate, high backed chair. A beautiful sword, with a markedly elaborate crossguard and jewel-encrusted pommel leaned against the chair. In the chair, Norway managed to look extremely dignified, borderline haughty, in white tights (Iceland thought this was wildly hilarious), some elaborate pants that cut well above the knee with intricate detail—they were deep blue, of course—paired with some strange, poofy coat-cape chimera that matched his pants or shorts or whatever they were in color and detail. To top it all off, there was a rather flat hat bearing a small feather and matching the rest of his clothing perfectly, perched at a jaunty angle on his head.

And in Norway's lap sat Iceland, some five years old, wearing similar clothing. He looked like a pitiable child, for his eyes sparkled with wariness in the painting.

Iceland didn't recall this ever happening. On second thought, the sword looked familiar.

"Norway, when was this pic—"

Norway frowned at the term.

"Sorry, painting—when was this painting painted?"

"Fifteen forty six."

"I don't really remember this happening." Iceland ran a hand through his hair and scowled in deep thought.

"Why d' y' look so mad, Norge?" Sweden remarked.

"I don't know." Norway admittedly. "Iceland is the one that looks mad."

"That's probably because I was sitting in a weirdo's lap," Iceland said with a wry smile. He dodged a halfhearted swat from Norway, which prompted Denmark to finish the job.

"Now I get to harass both brothers," Denmark said as he rubbed his hands mischievously.

"I've been dealing with this treatment for over millennia," Norway said in a rather flat monotone.

"Norge, c'n I 'ave that beer?" Sweden asked, gesturing vaguely to the beer bottle on his dresser. Sweden's reasoning is as follows: if a beer bottle wass anywhere outside the kitchen and unopened, it was his duty to drink it so that the beer does not feel awkward and alone. Actually, he just wanted to get to the booze before Denmark. In fact, Denmark was making a beeline for the wineglass. So Sweden made sure to trip him, which put Sweden in the lead. The first sip was his, and it was delicious.

And after Sweden downed the beer bottle, Norway pulled the first drawer on his dresser open and withdrew yet another bottle of beer. He was straight faced, but in those dead cadet blue eyes there was a spark of mischievousness.

"Clever," Sweden grunted with a nod of approval.

The beer was quickly dispersed and the five of them just loafed around in Norway's room, which smelled extra good. Denmark watched funny videos on Norway's laptop and praised the lightning fast internet. Finland was, surreptitiously as possible, trying to clean Norway's room. Throw a few things into drawers, move some books to the bookshelf, and the ultimate challenge: pick all the clothing up. He tried to hide an armful of clothing as he sidled out of the room, but failed. When Norway asked what he was doing and where he was going in a surprising mild tone, Finland just laughed nervously and dropped the pile of clothes by the foot of Norway's bed.

"This is like a bachelor pad," Iceland observed. "With all the clothes everywhere, leftover food, and beer in drawers and stuff."

"No, no," Sweden corrected with a stern shake of his head. "'T's pract'cal 'n well-planned."

;;;;;

"Sweden was famous for the ships he built. People came from all over to have one made." Finland explained. "A bunch of them are in museums today."

Iceland took a long swig of his juice and nodded, rather bored. He woke up an hour ago—much too early, at nine in the morning—and now ate his breakfast in silence. Norway's kitchen was particularly sunny and was the stark contrast of his room. Norway's kitchen was spotless.

"They were the best boats _ever_," Denmark agreed with a nod. "Such beautiful curves and designs."

"That reminds me, Iceland—if I am to call you a brother of mine, you must learn to row." Norway said authoritatively, snapping his book shut. He looked rather spiffy that morning, wearing his usual navy uniform. Fresh from the shower, a very pleasant but manly scent hung around him. His sleek, soft hair was already starting to wave and wisp the way it normally did.

"Y're right, Norge," Sweden agreed. He turned to Iceland and squinted as he sized him up. Iceland raised an eyebrow at him.

"What? Is there a problem?" Iceland prompted, gesturing vaguely to himself. He knew he looked like he had just woken up because—newsflash—he had. "Deal with it."

"I th'nk y'll make a good row'r," Sweden said quietly, cautiously. He excused himself from the conversation and decided to shovel food into his mouth so that no one would bother asking him questions. And if they did, he'd just chew really slowly.

"Get ready to feel better than you ever have in your life, Iceland." Denmark said, leaping up from his seat.

"Okay." Iceland shrugged.

"Don't eat too much. You'll be rowing." Norway nodded in the direction of the plate of Iceland's food.

Iceland didn't reply. He was imitating Sweden, though Sweden didn't know it, by eating at top speed. Norway ignored these antics and returned to his book, which seemed to be utterly enthralling at that moment.

Denmark bounded down the stairs a few minutes later, wearing shorts and a T-shirt and ready to go. Unfortunately, everyone was taking their time. So he went to go watch TV. But when the time came, Norway led the procession back down the steep cliff and onto the little dock. He lithely stepped into the little dinghy and everyone followed. Iceland hopped into the boat, just for kicks, but he quickly regretted that when he felt himself lose his balance. Norway's fast reflexes allowed him to grasp Iceland wrist and pull him onto the seat.

"First things first," Norway began. He settled himself next to Iceland held the oars firmly in his hands. The oars seemed to fit perfectly, with his graceful fingers curling gently around the cylindrical wood. "Rowing takes practice."

"Well, yeah." Iceland said with an irritated sigh. "Can you just, like, cut to the chase or something?"

"Fine." Norway said thinly. The oars were thrust into Iceland's hands, and he staggered back with Norway's force.

"Calm down." Iceland snapped.

"Start rowing." Norway commanded. "Push the oars forward with your hands, and lean—do not let your arms do the work. Abdominal and leg muscles will be involved as well as shifting your weight."

He leaned against the starboard and rested his legs atop the port, crossed at the ankles. He pulled a beer bottle from what seemed like nowhere and took a sip, gazing at Iceland coolly. And once again, that stupid book made another appearance, though Norway held it closed in his lap and watched Iceland with those guarded blue eyes.

"You're kidding me, right?" Iceland murmured.

"You wanted me to cut to the chase, so start rowing." Norway said.

Well, then. Iceland shot Norway an incredulous glance, but Norway was already deep in the book. Whatever, screw him, Iceland thought. He let a long, irritated sigh escape him and did as told. He leaned back and took the oars with him. They oars felt so foreign in his hands and they seemed to be pulled to the water by some invisible magnet. Iceland decided he'd need to push down to bring the oars out of the water. He did so, very slightly, as he leaned forward, keeping his abs tight, and repeated the motion. They were moving!

"That was good, Iceland." Norway said impassively.

"Th' oars feel weird n'w, but soon they'll feel w'ghtless." Sweden added. He sat behind Iceland, grasping a set of oars himself. Iceland's heart sunk. It was Sweden that had the boat moving. He, like Denmark and Norway, was an adroit rower. He did not have Norway's poise but had a certain thrill of power with each fluid motion. Determination was present on his stony countenance as he relived his Viking days. Somehow, Iceland knew he wasn't seeing the little dinghy, but a massive longship, with the obeliskoid, elaborate prow, sails full and fat with swirling winds. And on the horizon, a unnamed, unknown boat that would be plundered within minutes.

"So, you guys pillaged and plundered villages and ships and basically everything." Iceland said. He felt kind of lame for being so out of breath. "What exactly did that entail."

"You see, we simply playing a song on the ocarina, waved our Master Swords around, turned into wolves, and drank ourselves into comas." Norway responded. There was no way sarcasm could have carried a more bitter tone. Norway was clearly very offended by Iceland's little comment from yesterday, and Iceland was beginning to notice that Norway held grudges for the littlest things.

"Wow, you're hilarious," Iceland said with a forced, dry laugh. "Seriously, though."

"I'll explain for Norway. He's being rude today." Denmark cleared his throat and lifted his index finger, waving it in a very scholarly fashion as he spoke. He seemed to be quite fond of that maddening, demeaning gesture. "I liked plundering ships at sea. We rowed up to the boat, which was pathetic compared to ours, and jumped into it, killing people and throwing their valuable junk in our boat. Before any of this or while it went on, Norway would climb the prow like a tree and slice the enemy's sails. Then he'd join us. Sweden was usually the first one in the enemy's ship." Denmark laughed, hint of nostalgia tingeing his giggles. "Ah, I really miss those days…we ruled the seas back then."

"W' _rule _the seas," Sweden corrected.

Norway nodded somberly in agreement and initiated a telepathic conversation with Sweden. Iceland honestly didn't understand how the two understood each other since they never talked. Meanwhile, Denmark rambled on about hierarchy on the longship.

"Basically, we had the helmsman, which was usually the head of the group. He sat near the bow of the boat." Denmark explained. He pointed to Norway. "Your brother was helmsman most of the time. Sometimes, we switched, and we weren't always plundering together. In those cases, I headed my boat and Sweden headed his."

"N'xt t' th' 'elmsman sat the strokesm'n." Sweden explained. "Kinda like th' coxswain. 'e kept th' pace, us'lly shoutin' 'Str'ke' or bangin' 'gainst the st'rboard."

Two hours passed. They were far from the coastline now, floated on a smooth blue ocean rippled with little waves. Iceland would've been dead if he didn't have so much stamina—courtesy of swimming, soccer, and running. But his arms were heavy and his abs ached. He was dreadfully thirsty and the skin on his palms was peeling with the leftover blisters. He had kept his mouth shut to prove himself to Norway, who had deemed Iceland an adequate rower by not correcting him.

"I'm done," Iceland said, letting the oars fall into his lap.

"You're not. Keep going." Norway said flatly.

"But my hands hurt," Iceland murmured. He briefly let go of the oar to examine his blistered, bleeding palms.

"In our days, we rowed for months." Norway said loftily as he bit a glove off his hand. Norway held his hand out to Iceland, displaying the calluses from centuries ago, along with a few other curious scars. "Deal with it."

"Guess what? I'm not a Viking." Iceland snapped. He winced as a blister split and wet his hand with water and blood. He wanted to knock Norway senseless with these oars.

"If you are my brother, Iceland," Norway said in a scary vibrato, "then you most certainly are."

"L't m' see, Isl'nd," Sweden gently took Iceland's hands and held them, palms up. Iceland cringed at seeing his hands. Bloody and wet with popped blisters. Raw, rosy skin underneath white flaps of skin, tender. Iceland suddenly felt a pang of discomfort strike him. His stomach felt uneasy and he began to sweat. Sweden hummed thoughtfully and held Iceland's hands out to Norway.

"Norge, give 'im a rest." Sweden said. "Denmark 'nd I'll row us back t' th' house."

Sweden took the oars without awaiting Norway's answer, something that made Iceland smirk with glee. and within one hour they were back in Norway's house. Once he arrived, Iceland flung himself out on the couch and sullenly watched TV. He didn't feel too well. Iceland was warm and groggy and miserable with raw hands and maybe even a mild sunburn. His stomach hurt and his head spun. And before long, he fell into a fitful slumber, only to wake four hours later.

* * *

Norway seems like a hoarder. His room actually sounds like mine at the moment...OTL.

Very rushed, I know. I'll edit this when I don't have 6 projects to do.

Kind of random chapter. Oh well. Reviews, please.

OH! And I get a good amount of reviews, I'll draw fanart of this fic.

ladyrever . deviantart .com


	11. Fears

Chapter 11: Thirsty, anyone?

* * *

"What are you guys most afraid of?" Finland asked curiously. He surveyed the group with a small smile, waiting for someone to speak up.

Not happening. Iceland wasn't going to talk about his fears with these people. It already felt a teenage girl's slumber party, but with four grown men—former Vikings— sitting on a bed instead of pubescent girls. As a result, Iceland felt like he had no dignity at the moment. To make things worse, he was hungry, but too lazy to nick some food from the kitchen downstairs. He managed to get around this problem as well as detract attention from himself by stealing swigs from Norway's mug of coffee. Then, someone finally volunteered.

"Well…" Denmark put a finger to his lip in deep thought, and his cast his eyes downward as he put a coherent sentence together in mind. His eyebrow twitched down slightly. Everyone was so surprised by his volunteering, as they expected Denmark to shout about how he had no fears and proceed to rub this fact in everyone's faces. Denmark was recklessly brave—in all of Sweden and Norway's Viking years, they hadn't seen him balk at the instance of a challenge, monster, or massive army. He faced any and every daunting obstacle or challenge head on, without a second thought.

"This is really lame, but I'm really scared that you guys will die before me." Denmark said with a nervous laugh. He ran a hand through his glossy hair and he finally looked up at everyone, melancholic smile gracing his lips. "I can't think of living without all of you."

"Oh, that's…" Finland trailed off, at a loss for words. "…Yeah."

"Is this th' alc'hol t'lking?" Sweden asked, folding his arms. He was unconvinced.

"No." Denmark said, smile stretching into a wavering grin. "I'm trying to think about me alone in this room, but I just can't. It's way too painful. So, yeah. Don't die before me." Denmark cleared his throat and looked up at the ceiling in a contemplative fashion. But Iceland knew it was just so that no one would see the faintest gleam of tears in his big blue eyes.

"I'm kind of scared of heights." Finland said. "And that Hanatamago will die, or that Russia will come and take me away again. But really, a lot of my fears have been fulfilled."

"After being around so long there is not much that we can be afraid of." Norway pointed out.

"I'm st'll scared o' Jörmungandr. Even th' I'ven't seen 'im 'n cent'ries." Sweden admitted, adjusting his glasses reflexively. He scowled at the memory of that awful sea serpent. Jörmungandr was a deep, dark green in color so that he found camouflage in the dark waters of the northern seas. And he was massive snake, a never ending rope of rough skin with eight rows of sharp teeth and those eyes, an icy, insipid blue. Sweden turned a shudder into a cringe. Sweden tended not to like things without legs.

"I fear anything happening to Iceland." Norway said curtly. He barred himself from questions and comments by taking a ridiculously long drink from his cup of milk.

"I'm seventeen. I can handle things myself now," Iceland put in, resisting an eye roll.

"It's a big brother thing." Norway said loftily. He shot Iceland a knowing, cool gaze.

"I wish I had siblings." Finland said dreamily.

"Not an older one," Iceland said, smirking at Norway.

"Not a younger one," Norway added, gently swatting Iceland's head.

"N't ones like Bel'rus, Prussia, Am'rica, 'r R'mano." Sweden murmured.

"Point taken, Sweden." Finland agreed.

An awkward silence ensued. Iceland looked around the room, hoping for something to spark his imagination. He set a hand down on the bed and felt his hand sink a mountain of blankets, all shoved up against the headboard

"What's with all the blankets on your bed?" Iceland gingerly plucked a few blankets from the bed.

"I never know what I'm going to wake up next to." Norway said flatly.

"You're going to have to explain that one." Iceland snickered.

"I find myself waking up next to…" Norway paused, searching for the word. He toyed with the Nordic cross in his hair. "…things." Norway finished with an evasive note to his voice and watched Iceland askance.

"Like?" Iceland pressed. He liked seeing Norway feel uncomfortable.

"Elves, fairies, trolls, imps, and Sweden, when he gets drunk at my house and stays the night. Don't ask me why. It's been happening for three centuries." Norway said, glancing at Sweden. He was addressing the bewildered, somewhat disturbed look on Iceland's face. "When Denmark and Sweden are here on a holiday or birthday, we get impossibly drunk. Denmark doesn't make it to a bed or bathroom whereas Sweden and I do. But no matter what, the day after, Sweden is in my bed."

"That's really weird; I'm not going to lie." Iceland snorted.

"I know." Sweden muttered, scowling. "Dunno why it happens."

"Yes, I agree." Norway sniffed. "So, I keep blankets on nearby to throw them over whatever is next to me so that I don't have to see it when I wake up."

"Good thinking." Iceland chuckled.

"How's Mr. Puffin?" Norway asked out of the blue.

"Oh, well, I figured you'd know, since you're best friends with him and all." Iceland said with a wry smile. Norway tried to look mad but failed and smiled conservatively instead.

"I'd like to meet his wife and children." Norway said. He sat down on his bed. "How many kids does he have?"

"I don't know, five or so?" Iceland guessed, shrugging. Iceland hadn't actually had a back to back conversation with Mr. Puffin. Norway had. Perhaps Norway was just…gifted. Iceland wondered whether Denmark would be able to communicate with Mr. Puffin, since Denmark caught languages very quickly.

"You should know that, Iceland." Norway chided. "He is your puffin, after all."

"Yeah. Guess what? I don't talk to animals and other fake things because I'm not as strange as you are."

"Don't be jealous," Norway said with a wave of his hand. "It's only natural that even mythical creatures prefer me over you. And they're not fake because you've seen them."

"Well, I have friends. That people can actually see and communicate with."

"Do you?" Norway prompted, feigning surprise. "Your maids call me at least once a month and fret about your habit of not leaving the house."

"I leave the house more than you do. I mean, look at your room—you literally live here in these four walls."

"Why yes, Iceland, it is my house." Norway said.

"Well—" Iceland thought of a comeback. He didn't come up with a good one, so he just blurted what was on his mind. "I can blow people up with volcanoes and also see the Aurora Borealis."

"And I can kill people with my swords." Norway pointed to his closet. He had a whole arsenal of ancient swords and axes stashed in there.

"Would you rather die by volcano or sword?" Iceland asked coolly.

"I'd rather commit suicide than die by some geyser or a stab wound—that's a pansy way to die." Norway remarked. "Though, drowning would be the worst way to die."

Iceland nodded. It was terrifying to feel shriveling lungs and starry vision during swimming or diving deep below the water, but to not be in control would be incredibly nightmarish.

"Sweden has nearly drowned a few times." Denmark said. "Back in the Viking days, that is."

"One t'me I went t' test the w'ters an' turned up 'n Copenhagen's shore. S'mehow, I wasn't dead."

"I don't think I've had a near death experience." Iceland said thoughtfully. "If meeting that crazy dragon doesn't count."

"He speaks highly of you." Norway said. "Yes, I've had many."

"Did your life flash before your eyes?" Iceland asked.

"Once or twice, but one time it was completely different." Norway said. "During the Battle of Berlin, I was shot twice in the chest and stabbed by shrapnel. I was surrounded by pale light. Blinding, bright, warm light. As I breathed, I heard a breeze, as if the breath of life was already out of me and in the winds that sweep the earth. I began to move backward. Everything became dim. And then, I woke."

"Cool." Iceland said. Like any other male, he liked hearing about wars, guns, bloody wounds, and other weapons. And with near death experiences, famed for their arcane nature, thrown into each story, Iceland listened with rapt attention.

"It was." Norway said. "I was crawling on the ground and I entered the light just like that," Norway snapped his fingers for effect.

"Tell me another one." Iceland said.

"After Níðhöggr nearly bit my arm off, I bled for a week. I was unconscious for three weeks straight, but in those three weeks I lived an out of body experience. I saw everything that went on around me, even though my body was in a coma, motionless." Norway said. "Another time, I was stabbed through the hip by a pole. It hit one of the major arteries."

"Where and when was that one?" Iceland inquired. Those freak accidents always mystified him.

"Nineteen eighty five, a car accident in England. In this near death experience, I was in a tight, hot tunnel. A waterslide of my own blood. But I was very relaxed. Then all went black and I woke in the hospital " Norway said.

"I remember that one." Denmark said fondly. "You know, Sweden has a pretty recent one himself." He nudged Sweden. "Tell them about the time you had food poisoning." Denmark said eagerly.

"'Twas two th'sand seven." Sweden said as a dark shadow passed over his face. "On th' evening o' May twenty sev'nth, I ate some f'st food. I was sicker than I'd ev'r been with'n th' hour." He grimaced.

"It was hellish, I remember." Denmark said dramatically. "Sweden was too sick to walk or even stand within six hours. When we pinched his skin it stood up and stayed pinched instead of snapping back, that's how dehydrated he was."

"I was in t h' hosp'tal f'r alm'st two weeks. I spent m' birthd'y there." Sweden said.

"It was really, really, bad." Denmark said. "The doctor said it was the worst case he'd ever seen. Finland and I were prepping a funeral it was so bad."

"It w's weird," Sweden shook his head. "An' painful. Th' near death experience happ'ned a few times. It w's th' same one in which I fell through st'rs, clouds, w'ter, earth, an' fire."

Sweden left it at that. He didn't want to go into detail with the feelings of burning, freezing, drowning, being buried alive, and burning once again as he fell through the atmosphere.

Sweden paused to wonder how they had started this conversation in the first, and why he was even in Norway's room. Sweden had originally come in to Norway where the towels were, because he just wanted to take a shower and do Norway's laundry which was piling up in the utility room downstairs.

"I'm going to go clean the kitchen." Finland excused himself. He couldn't stand being in Norway's cluttered room any longer.

"Sweden, let's practice some rowing with Iceland." Denmark said eagerly.

Sweden, in the doorway stopped short, turned around. An interesting, tempting suggestion, even though it was from Denmark, and even though he had some of Norway's housework to do. Sweden locked eyes with Norway, who nodded with a very steely, stern look to his eyes. Sweden nodded back—he understood. Norway wanted Iceland to practice his rowing.

"C'mon, Iceland. Let's go." Sweden said.

"Wait, I just—" Iceland looked to Norway for help. He didn't really know why he did that. Norway always sided with the opposing party, and Iceland was beginning to wonder if he did it just to make him mad.

"Go with them. I have errands to run in the city." Norway rose from his bed and plucked his car keys from the mess on his dresser. He was zipping down his driveway in thirty seconds while Iceland descended the crag down to the boat. He jumped in and grabbed the oars, ready to prove himself.

The clouds were thick and fluffy high above, and a monstrous wind brought fervor to Iceland. He was determined not to feel the pain of his blisters as he rowed, synchronized with Sweden and Denmark. The thin tendrils of red blood leaking down his arms went unnoticed. And then two hours passed. Even though it was not yet two o'clock in the afternoon, they seemed to have been plunged into the evening hours.

The clouds, thick and bulbous and charcoal in color, let loose pounding rains and stirred the sea with a cold, lashing wind. The waves were dark blue, almost black in color, mirroring the skies. Silvery seafoam capped and draped each violent wave tossed the dinghy around.

"This is bad," Denmark gritted his teeth as another wind cut through his wet clothing. He removed his shirt and threw it into the ocean carelessly. "Seems like we can't do anything."

"But you guys are Vikings!" Iceland yelled over the deafening roar of the waves. His breath caught as they plunged a few meters amongst the roiling waves of the furious sea. "Can't you handle this?"

"Our longships were a lot bigger, heavier, and had more than three men on it!" Denmark yelled back. His blonde hair had turned brown with water and clung to his colored cheeks. Denmark was almost unrecognizable, but the characteristic gleam of excitement remained in his bright blue eyes. He withdrew his oars from the sea and Sweden did the same.

"We can't do anyth'ng 'n this w'ther." Sweden said. "All we c'n do 's wait."

The pitch and roll of the ship was brusque and sickening. The water was darker, the waves larger, and the wind sharper than before. And then, a massive wave came, a black, possessive hand that loomed over them. But the wave abruptly fell back to the ocean with a loud crash, not unlike the thunder's booms. The boat bucked and soared over the waters, and upon falling back onto the waves the dinghy nearly capsized. Sweden and Denmark acted fast and clung to the opposite side of the boat in an attempt to keep it right, an another brash wave struck. That wave washed threw its cold, foamy net over Iceland and washed him straight over the boat. Denmark and Sweden made a move to grab Iceland, but he was already gone.

And Iceland was well underwater before he knew it. He opened his eyes and the salt stung, but he could see nothing at all. Alarming panic settled and hardened within him, as this was real. The sea stretched his body and bent him as if it had hands. And his breath began to evaporate. Iceland couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't hear over the water's snarling and growling in his ears. The sea was dark and turbid, tossing Iceland around and pounding deeper under water by its explosive waves and jarring current, and no matter how hard or how frantically Iceland struggled, the Atlantic had its claws tight around Iceland's ankles and wrists and neck as it pulled him down, greedy for another human's life. And Iceland's breath was gone. There—the shriveling lungs, the pain in his limbs and the sparkles that dotted his vision. He involuntarily tried to breathe. His diaphragm locked, betraying him. Iceland clawed up and kicked harder, desperately trying to reach the faraway surface, lit faintly by lightning streaking across the sky, even as he was harshly buffeted by the cold current, twisting him in all directions. Lighting above struck again, illuminating the sea in silver light so that the last Iceland saw were his hands, and then his body gave out. Iceland suddenly felt pleased—he would've laughed if he had the air to laugh with. And he no longer thought in words, but in fuzzy, grainy pictures that popped up before his eyes here and there. Sparkles covered up the last bit of gray and he closed his eyes, waiting for the sea to stop to his heart. He wondered Mr. Puffin and whether Finland finished cleaning Norway's house, and he wondered about his predicament. In a bright tunnel of light Iceland heard gentle ocean waves and the calls of puffins, which flew past him, streaks of black, white, and orange. Iceland wanted look back at them, but he couldn't. Finland walked by him, followed by Sweden and Denmark. And finally, Norway, who touched Iceland's arm before moving on. And then, Iceland was alone, but happy, the way he'd always been. The light was dimming pleasantly, like the setting of a sun, and Iceland started the first syllable of goodbye before faded gracefully into black.

;;;;;

Iceland woke with a jolt. His vision was blurry, his throat stung as if the skin had been sloughed off. He numb and cold and breathed shallow breaths. The rain had stopped. He closed his eyes and felt smooth leather under him and a cool window on his cheeks—Norway's car. The smell of money, cologne, and paper. And the soft hum of the engine. A door must have been open, because he heard voices come closer.

"Norway—" Denmark began, out of breath.

"Where is Iceland? _Where is my little brother_?" Norway demanded. His tone was rather shrill and hysterical, but fell into a terrifying vibrato as he continued. "God damn it, Denmark, if anything happened to Iceland—"

"Norway, Icel—"

"Where is—" Norway didn't finish his sentence, as Denmark interrupted.

"Let me finish!" Denmark snapped with uncharacteristic anger. "Sweden's taking him to the hospital. Get your ass in the car and go with them instead of yell at me."

Norway's footsteps, rhythmic and even, came closer, and stopped as Norway clambered into the car. Iceland cracked an eye open. The door had barely closed and they were all ready rolling down Norway's driveway. Norway's elegant countenance was sheet white and his eyes were wide, terrified yet guarded and even furious. He mumbled something in Norwegian, too fast for Iceland to make out at that moment. Norway placed a warm hand on Iceland's cheek.

"Iceland, can you hear me?" Norway whispered into Iceland's ear.

Iceland made a small sound in his throat. He was too tired to talk and felt full but nauseous. He was acutely aware of the new pain that started in his chest.

"Hurry up, Sweden." Norway said in forced calm. Sweden drove well over speed limit, making sharp turns and hard stops, weaving in and out of traffic. Buildings and cars and people whizzed by, but Iceland hardly saw anything. His mind was too cloudy.

"We're almost there." Norway said, patting Iceland's shoulder.

Iceland's vision was sparkling again, this time with more fervor. He was dizzy and hot and hated the stabbing pain he felt as he tried to breathe. He was drowning on his own breath.

The car stopped abruptly and Norway hoisted Iceland's limp body out.

"You're heavy," Norway said under his breath. "Iceland, stay awake." Norway commanded. A rush of cold air hit Iceland as they stormed into the hospital. And the last thing Iceland remembered was being tossed onto a gurney and gloved hands working their way up all over him. Then, he was out.

;;;;;

Iceland's eyes snapped open and he gasped at seeing four concerned faces over him. Finland looked sympathetic, Norway's gazed at Iceland sharply, Sweden frowned, and even Denmark appeared to be somber.

"What's going on?" Iceland said weakly. He could hardly speak. He was exhausted. His stomach hurt terribly—a deep ache that slipped to his side every so often. Nausea roiled in his head and constricted his throat. His mouth was dry. He wanted water but he knew he'd not be able to hold it down.

"Good to see you awake, Iceland," Finland said, relieved.

"Uh-huh." Iceland said weakly. He peeled an oxygen mask off of him—all the pure oxygen made him feel lightheaded, and he felt well enough to breathe on his own. Iceland shifted uncomfortably under the covers. His hand brushed a tube, and spurred on by curiosity, Iceland lifted the sheets to find out where it was coming from. He nearly fainted at seeing the tube snaked out of the side of his ribs. A clear liquid rushed through it every so often. Water that he had inhaled, he hoped.

"It'll b' out 'n less th'n a day." Sweden said reassuringly. "Other than th't, how're y' feeling?"

Iceland shrugged a little. He felt better than he did last night, but still felt pretty bad. More than anything, he was sleepy and his thinking was fuzzy.

"The doctors did some pretty cool stuff to you." Denmark said. "They drained all the water in your stomach through your nose and then they got your blood and threw blankets all over you and put that chest tube in and got x-rays and pumped drugs into you." Denmark flashed Iceland a blindingly happy smile.

"No wonder I feel so bad." Iceland rubbed his eyes and grimaced.

At that moment, Sweden cleared his throat pointedly, and even Iceland is his current groggy state could tell that was a clear signal for them to leave. Denmark to leapt up from his chair and dragged Finland out of the room, all while chatting about some cute nurse on the first floor. The door closed behind them.

"S'rry." Sweden mumbled. "There aren't s'posed t' b' so many people in th' room."

"I snuck the others in by lying that we're all brothers." Norway said quietly.

"It's n't unfeas'ble." Sweden said with a shrug.

Iceland didn't really expect Norway to be all right with lying, but Sweden was right. Since all five of them were tall and blond (varying shades, of course) with light eyes, it would've made perfect sense that they were brothers. A cheap trick on Norway's part, but it got the job done.

"It's a miracle that you're alive." Norway said coldly. He rubbed his eyes and heaved a sigh. The longer Iceland looked at them, it was evident neither had slept the night.

"How'd you find me?" Iceland asked Sweden.

"'Twas stupid."Sweden mumbled, adjusting his glasses. "Denmark n' I waited for the st'rm to c'lm, s'nce it was one o' those freak st'rms."

"They happen in Reykjavik, too." Norway said with a nod. "And it happened to us Vikings hundreds of times."

"Denmark tied a rope 'round me, an' I dived 'nto the w'ter b'cause I'd seen y' floatin' 'round. So, I found y' an' dragged y' back t' th' boat and t' Norge's house."

"Oh." Iceland said. If he were human, he'd surely be dead. "Norway, guess what? I had a near death experience. You were in it."

Norway raised an eyebrow, indicated him to continue. His expression was sour and disapproving.

"I was standing in a lot of light. And puffins flew by me. I couldn't move. And then Finland, Sweden, Denmark, and you walked by me. Norway, you and touched my arm. Then I was really happy and everything slowly faded to black." Iceland explained. He felt really stupid all of a sudden.

"Well, I'm glad you're still with us." Norway said. Iceland noted a new shine to Norway's steely eyes. Norway stood up and approached Iceland's bedside cautiously. Without further ado, he wrapped Iceland in a warm, tight but gentle hug, topped out with a brotherly hair tousling. Iceland smiled a little. Norway was warm. And his touch was so familiar, so tender.

"Wouldn't b' th' same w'thout y'." Sweden agreed. He promptly took a swig of beverage he had in hand to open his throat, which had constricted a little. Sweden wasn't emotional at all. Rather stoic, particularly in the face of adversity. Ah, but he did have a soft spot for family affairs. He knew very well of the awkwardness between the brothers because Norway confided in Sweden. Sweden was a trustworthy, patient man, making him an excellent listener. It seemed to Sweden that the Norway and Iceland were becoming better friends.

"Hey, Norway? Don't tell my maids about this. They won't let me do anything ever again." Iceland muttered. Just thinking about them gave him a headache. Nowadays, they wouldn't respond if Iceland didn't address them in Icelandic. And they wouldn't accept his slang, so he sounded like he was speaking out of the textbook if he wanted them to do something. Iceland was about sick of it. When he turned eighteen he was getting rid of them. He'd spent enough time with them, even though they left before one o'clock on most days.

Then, Iceland had an epiphany.

"Norway! I now remember why everything faded to black!" Iceland exclaimed. "It was Níðhöggr, he was flying in circles around me."

"I told you he was fond of you," Norway said.

"So, did he stop me from dying or something?" Iceland asked. Under the effect of various medication, Iceland willing to be a little more imaginative than usual.

Norway flashed Iceland his rare grin, only to hastily cover it up with his hand. Norway looked extraordinarily relieved, as if he was under the effect of a sedative.

"Wha's s' funny?" Sweden asked.

"It's funny Iceland should mention that," Norway said.

"Norway, you need some sleep." Iceland said, raising an eyebrow.

"'M kind o' w'rried 'bout 'im." Sweden muttered, watching Norway, who had leaned back into the couch's cushions.

"Shortly before the storm hit, Níðhöggr stopped by my bedroom window. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what. He never makes an appearance near cities." Norway explained. "Iceland, did you feel like you were being pulled down in the ocean?"

"I barely remember, but yes." Iceland said gruffly. Norway acted so strangely.

"That was Níðhöggr. He considered taking you down, but must've changed his mind and taken you back up the surface and spared you." Norway said thoughtfully.

"Why does Níðhöggr like me so much?" Iceland asked with a sigh. "And if he does, then why'd he try to kill me?

"I don't know, Iceland. I will never know." Norway said calmly. "The question remains why he tried to kill me, too."

"And why did we survive?" Iceland posed yet another question. He knew that he was more resistant to illness and injury as a nation, but that didn't answer why they all survived, given the size of the boat and the aggressive wave.

"The mystery lives on." Norway drawled.

Iceland shifted his gaze to the window. It was cloudy outside, very peaceful. Iceland sank back into his plushy pillows and watched Sweden and Norway, who intently stared back at him, not unlike alert canines.

"Th' d'ctor said y' can leave 'n two 'r three days." Sweden said with a nod. "All th' water's gotta b' outta y'."

"Ugh. I feel really sick all of a sudden." Iceland mumbled. The blood fled from his face, and his hands became wet with sweat. They shook, as did the rest of his body in a sudden chill. A qualm of nausea had come over him with the force of the ocean current. Iceland hadn't felt so sick in a very long time.

"I've seen th't look b'fore." Sweden's eyes narrowed. His rose from his seat and strode into the bathroom, emerging with a pan that he placed in Iceland's lap.

"Get that thing off of me. I'll be fine—" Iceland was cut off by his stomach contents, which had risen dangerously high inside him. He clamped his mouth shut. Hell no, not now. And Norway had just sat down next to Iceland, with a firm hand on Iceland's back, and Sweden hovered nearby. Denmark watched Iceland with an apologetic smile and Finland stood in the doorway, waiting for the nurse. Too many people, too sick. Ugh. Iceland blinked some sparkles out of his eyes. And then, he promptly vomited into the pan.

"It's 'cause o' all the' drugs." Sweden explained as Norway soothingly rubbed Iceland's back. But Norway had paled slightly, disgusted, and he looked sour and a bit ill himself. Denmark continued to smile.

"You done, there, Ice?" Denmark asked. He patted Iceland's thigh.

"Fuck drugs," Iceland spat, jerking the covers over himself.

"Feel better?" Norway asked gently. He was close enough so that Iceland could smell him, and the aroma seemed to calm Iceland's oscillating nausea. At the same time, Iceland wanted to shove him away, but he couldn't bring himself to even lift a finger. He had been disarmed by Norway's tender backrub, which quickly soothed Iceland into a strange, dreamy state, not unlike the one he was in just as he drowned. Iceland bobbed in and out of consciousness, and there, in consciousness' purgatory, he heard Denmark's voice and Sweden's low rumble and Finland's pleasant lilt. He felt Norway's warm, familiar hands on his back, going in smooth, circular motions. And there, Iceland realized that these four were, indeed, his friends. No, more—family. Iceland allowed a small smile. He relinquished his consciousness and sank into a pleasant sleep.

* * *

Some of you have been asking about Finland. He'll have his special chapter in about two chapters.

And In the spirit of Christmas, leave me some reviews, why don't you?

And a huge thanks to spiritwinned, too.


	12. Talents

Chapter 12: Fin

* * *

Iceland had spent the majority of his day on a plane or in airport, having woken up early to catch his flight to Oslo, where he waited for two hours or so for the flight to Helsinki. When Iceland found his seat on the plane, he was spooked to see that Norway had the seat right next to his. However, Norway assured him it was coincidence, all the while smirking as Iceland's suspicions.

Finland had invited them to spend five days with him in his house, a modest home on the fringes of Helsinki's outskirts, almost in the countryside. Iceland liked Helsinki, since it wasn't a sprawling Stockholm or bustling Copenhagen, and Finland was more normal that the rest of them. He didn't talk to fairies, act retarded, and spoke clear, coherent English.

Finland was quite good at multitasking while driving—he managed to point out attractions and people on the street, and all while screaming obscenities at fellow drivers and swerving in and out of traffic, Finland made decent conversation with his passengers. Sweden was scared into silence by Finland's driving antics, sweating in the front seat and inching his hand closer and closer to the steering wheel.

"—anyway!" Finland sighed contentedly after leaning on the horn for a good ten seconds (someone had cut him off on the street). "How is everyone?"

"Terr'fied." Sweden mumbled.

"What did you say? I didn't hear you." Finland said curiously.

"N'thing…"

The five of them made it to Finland's house alive.

But chaos struck the minute Finland noticed that Hanatamago hadn't come to attack him with doggy kisses upon walking in the door. He dropped his suitcase and began to look for her at once. Sweden was outside, whistling for Hanatamago, searching for her among the rolling hills that surrounded Finland's house.

"What? Hanatamago is gone?" Denmark demanded, looking up from the bag of chips he had his hand in. As usual, he was the last to realize the loss in the household. "Where did he go?"

"It's a she. And I don't know!" Finland cried frantically, peering under his couch. "She was here before we left! I left her food, water, and toys…and she's stayed alone many times before."

"There is a possibility that she has died." Norway said solemnly.

Finland gaped at Norway in horror, losing color to his face. Denmark was even shocked at the morbid, yet feasible comment, and Iceland just stared, unable to summon emotions that summed up how uncomfortable he felt now that Norway had uttered that blunt, insensitive comment. But that remark seemed to poke Finland's other side out of hiding. He was a cheerful, good natured individual—in fact, his default mood was happy. Unfortunately, he was quickly swayed by Norway's faux pas. Finland squared his shoulders and gazed at Norway with uncanny intensity, and he said in a low voice, "Don't you dare say that. Hanatamago is not dead. She can't be."

Norway didn't reply. He didn't need to.

Meanwhile, Iceland dutifully set out to find the dog. Truthfully, he just wanted to snoop around Finland's house, since that was a little something Iceland always loved to do. It was interesting to find things out about people by inspecting a house. Snooping around—and finding Hanatamago— would be much easier in Finland's house, since his home was modest and simple compared to Norway's seaside mansion and Denmark's inner city manor. Sweden himself owned a sprawling, modern house in Stockholm, though Iceland had never been.

Iceland figured he'd find Hanatamago eventually if he just walked around aimlessly. Iceland also didn't feel like penning a complicated recon plan to find a puppy that was probably sleeping somewhere, despite Norway's grave prediction. Iceland snickered and shook his head. Oh, so now Norway thought he was a fortune teller. That meant Iceland's brother told fortunes, talked to fake things, talked to animals, and wrote Norse mythology. And more, since Norway still sounded somewhat normal with that list. Then a thought came to mind. If Norway was a normal twenty four year old human that still did all these things, he'd be American-sized, have no friends whatsoever and be disowned by his family. Well, if Norway was Iceland's son (Iceland shuddered at the thought) Iceland would remove him from the family tree for being so weird.

At least Norway looked normal. He was fit, smelled good, and had hygiene. Along with that, Norway didn't go around talking to people about Odin's hobbies or how he had met a dashing lizard on his vacation to Mexico (if Norway had ever been to Mexico).

Whatever. Iceland thought too much, yet again. He banished his rogue train of thought and veered left into a large room. This room had to be Finland's bedroom, since it smelled like salmiakki and Finland himself, who carried another unique scent with him. The room was relatively bare so that it looked straight out of a catalog. Iceland stood at the dresser and curled his fingers around a knob, about to pull a drawer open, when something in the mirror caught his eye. A white fluffy ball rested upon Finland's green covers.

Iceland found Hanatamago, curled up on Finland's bed cool to the touch and rigid. Iceland backed away, left hand tingling with the feeling of death on his fingers. He felt somewhat ill—he had just touched a dead dog, and how would he break the news to Finland, who was dutifully tearing the house apart searching for Hanatamago? He took another half step back and turned around, only to face Norway.

"Crap, you scared me." Iceland mumbled.

"I told him." Norway said quietly. He stepped aside and allowed Iceland to cross the threshold into the hallway.

"Where's Finland?" Iceland asked hoarsely. Finland was not going to be taking this well. However, the house was silent. He heard no wails of grief, no sobs. Only Denmark pacing the living room, muttering something in Danish to himself, and the obnoxiously loud ticking of some old clock nearby.

"He's telling Sweden." Norway replied.

"Uh…" Iceland was at a loss for words. "This is bad."

Norway nodded gravely, and began a slow, relaxed walk to the living room, joining Denmark. Denmark looked a little bit worried, empathetic for once.

"Yeah, it's because I had this obese cat for like ever named…I forgot his name, but yeah, it was sad when he died." Denmark said with a sure nod. Ah, that cat. Denmark wished he remembered its name—that cat was almost as amazing as he was. Denmark decided to worry about that later and glanced out the window. He could see Sweden and Finland approaching the house. Finland was remarkably stoic, and Sweden's expression registered no visible emotion, as usual. He expected Finland to be a mess at this point.

"Your attachment to animals is obviously weak." Norway pointed out. "Finland tends to get attached to everything, whether it breathes or not."

"Mmhmm. That's a disease, you know." Denmark pointed out, raising his eyebrows.

"So is narcissism." Norway countered. Iceland snickered. His brother was quite the witty one. Denmark picked up the insult immediately, and gave him a sarcastic reply and affectionate noogie. A muscle in Norway's jaw twitched ominously as he meticulously smoothed his hair down and placed his hat back on his head. Then, the front door swung open, and in came Finland, followed by Sweden.

"Wh're's she?" Sweden asked, scowling slightly at seeing Denmark stretched out all over Finland's couch.

"Finland's room." Norway answered. Without a word, Sweden lumbered upstairs. Finland did not follow. He stood in the living room, white faced and numb. The emotions would rise later, or, judging by the nearly undetectable tremors in his lips, soon. Finland dumped himself on the couch and muttered, "It's all my fault. I'm a bad person."

"Aw, Fin. It's not that way at all." Denmark said enthusiastically, giving Finland a hearty pat on the back. Finland didn't appear to be the least bit consoled. He heaved a sigh and shook his head. "You were the best owner that dog could have ever had. You were—and are—sweet, kind, and genuinely caring."

It was this comment that shattered Finland's stoic attitude. He was inconsolable within seconds, awash with grief, tears following the curve of his cheeks and dripping off his chin and nose. Denmark put an arm around him and waved Iceland and Norway over for back up. Perhaps Norway, who foretold the tragedy, should remain uninvolved. Iceland _really_ didn't want to get involved. He had no experience in weighty matters like death. Iceland wanted to side with his brother, because he didn't know what to say or do, but Denmark insisted he come over. Iceland reluctantly gave in and patted Finland's while he sobbed uncontrollably. Norway, instead, gazed out the window, surveying the placid countryside beyond the gates. Iceland wished he was doing the same. Sweden appeared, and approached Finland carefully.

"D'you wan' t' see 'er?" he asked gently, patting Finland's back. Finland shook his head. Sweden nodded and placed a hand on Finland's shoulder for a few moments. He made a half-turn on his heel, as if about to leave, weighing his decision. Sweden sat on Finland's other side and snaked an arm around Finland, pulling him close. Sweden remained relatively emotionless except for his left eyebrow, cocked as at downward angle, and acting a subtle sign of melancholy. Not long passed before Sweden started the hunt for a shoebox to put Hanatamago in. She would be buried that evening with a modest funeral. Sweden found one, placed the puppy inside it, and sealed the box with tape while Denmark dug a hole outside. To entrust the simple task of burying a decent sized hole to Denmark with an actual shovel earned Sweden nods of recognition from Iceland, Norway, and even the teary Finland. Denmark was the kind of person that could raise hell with a shovel and have a blast. Denmark could have a party inside a laundry basket and enjoy himself—he was fully capable of having fun, personal parties wherever he was. Sweden stole a few peeks at Denmark through a window in his kitchen. Denmark appeared to be having a lot of fun stabbing the shovel into the ground with brute force and exaggerated movements. However, the hole was of appropriate size and depth. Hopefully (but unlikely) Denmark would register that and stop shoveling.

"Let's go." Sweden said. Sweden led the procession with Finland, Norway, and Iceland trudging behind. He had never been to a funeral before, and felt very agitated. A dead dog was in a cardboard box, Denmark looked somber, and Norway had predicted a death. The day had gone so terribly wrong. A pang of guilt hit Iceland—he wondered how Mr. Puffin was doing back home. Was he alive? He had to be. Iceland repressed the feelings of desperation that were beginning to well up within him. Iceland wondered if Norway knew how his puffin was faring in Reykjavik, or if Norway had a sixth sense of sort. The unknown agitated Iceland more than ever, especially now with the possibility that Norway possessed a kind clairvoyance.

The funeral officially began with Sweden placing the box in the hole and Denmark clearing his throat authoritatively.

"We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of Hanatamago. While she was alive, she lived a life full of joy and kindness given to her by her owners, Finland and Sweden." Denmark took a dramatic pause. Finland was staring at the 'casket' tears streaming down his face. Denmark actually smiled apologetically at this point. Finland looked as if he was being torn apart from inside. "She will be missed by all who knew her. Are there any last words?"

"Sh' was a good d'g." Sweden said flatly.

"I didn't know her very well," Iceland said. He suddenly lost his train of thought. What if it was Mr. Puffin in that box? Mr. Puffin had a family—a wife and children. There was no way that could happen. Anxiety seared through Iceland, and a distinct, haunting coldness settled in his fingertips. He racked his memory, frenetically rifling through recollections he had acquired in the past three days for the last words he said to Mr. Puffin. Iceland didn't remember. His panicked reverie was broken by Norway, who surreptitiously nudged him in the ribs.

"O-Oh…right." Iceland resumed. "She was very dear to Finland. And, uh, all of us, I guess."

"She'll be missed." Norway said shortly. Iceland glanced at his brother, who had his lips pressed tightly together to keep from smiling. Iceland truly wondered what it was that made Norway smile like that. Surely, Norway wasn't smiling at the grave situation. Was it something Iceland had said?

"Hanatamago, you w-were the best p-pet I've ever had. Ever." Finland said tearfully. "A-And no matter what, I will always remember you. You were…no, are—a part of me. I'll always l-love you."

"He was a cute, fluffy little thing." Denmark added. Finland went rigid at the fact Denmark had once again missed Hanatamago's gender. Iceland's heart was thundering in his ears. The vivid memory of the last time he saw Mr. Puffin was all he had in mind. He so badly wanted to return to Iceland to see if he was there, eating fish like he normally did.

"Let us pray that he lives a good life in heaven." Denmark finished. Finland bit his tongue to resist screaming the gender correction at Denmark, and his preventative measures only resulted in a thicker, faster, flow of tears.

And with that, Denmark scooped dark soil into the pit, filling it up. Soon, grass would be growing over it, and Hanatamago would become part of Finland's green backyard. The five of them retreated into the house. The sun was setting in the west, and even though it was dinner time, nobody had much of an appetite. It seemed to have died with Hanatamago. In the meantime, Sweden sat with Finland at the kitchen table. Finland had his arms folded on the table, head resting his arms. Sweden murmured no consolations. His mere presence would do more than consolations—at this time, consolations meant nothing to Finland.

"Time n' tears," Sweden said firmly.

Iceland stealthily raided Finland's pantry for some snacks—aggressively adolescent hunger gnawed at his stomach. He was disheartened to discover a stash of salmiakki. Different brands, packaging, all piled up in a corner. Iceland shook his head, chagrinned. Would Finland suffer withdrawal symptoms if he didn't eat salmiakki for a day or two? He was tempted to try an experiment with that. Naturally, he'd need someone's assistance. Iceland committed that thought to memory and settled on some non crackers and a soda he found in the fridge, taking them with him out to the living room, where he joined Denmark on the couch to waste time for some four hours.

At the point, Iceland couldn't stand it. Mr. Puffin was still flying around in his mind. Iceland fished for his cell phone in his pocket and scampered outside, dialing the number to his home in Reykjavik.

"Um, halló…" Iceland said self consciously. He spoke quietly—his breathing felt like he was disturbed the uncanny silence of the countryside night. Fireflies blinked in the distance. "This is Iceland. I was wondering if you've seen a puffin wandering around the household…or outside the house. In the area." Iceland paused and listened to the reply from one of his maids. "Mmhmm—the one with the pink bow around its neck…oh, he is? Good. Thanks for telling me."

A sigh of relief escaped from Iceland, who could now rest easy. He smiled at the thought of his dear puffin, safe at home. He missed his presence. Mr. Puffin usually hung around Iceland, nipping him if he wanted food of if he felt spiteful, and Iceland would more often than not indulge. But, he wouldn't reply to Iceland if spoken to, something that greatly irritated Iceland, but he let it slip. Iceland felt stupid and weak for being so attached to an animal that refused to talk to him but had no problem conversing with his brother. Iceland scoffed at himself— holding grudges was such an elementary, uncharacteristic thing for him to do. Besides, he and Norway kind of addressed that matter back in July, and they were in mid October. Anyway, Iceland was fairly skilled at keeping his emotions at bay, wrapping them up in common sense and letting them sink into the recesses of his mind. But sometimes, pieces of emotional flotsam arose from the depths…like now. Iceland sighed once again and turned on his heel to go back inside, but was halted by his older brother, who had been standing behind him all along.

"Ah! Norway!" Iceland gasped in unpleasant surprise and took a half step back. How long had Norway been there? The moonlight illuminated Norway's pallid face and cast a cool glow in his impassive, cadet blue eyes.

"I would've told you if Mr. Puffin was alive." Norway said impassively.

"So, are you psychic or something?" Iceland blurted out. Very slightly, the left corner of Norway's mouth rose in the ghost of smile. He looked thoughtful for a moment.

"No." Norway answered, drawing out the word. "Let's take a walk."

Norway began to stroll ahead, and Iceland was hesitant to follow. He paused, and looked at Iceland over his shoulder, eyebrows raised expectantly. Iceland followed suit. It was dark outside, but Norway emitted an aura of relaxation. The grass whispered under them with each step they took, and the susurrus picked up when a breeze rustled the trees. The velvety sky was sprinkled and brushed with stars that glimmered like diamonds. Norway suddenly stopped walking and sat down on a hill that overlooked the remainder of the green meadow. He stretched his legs out in front of him and crossed them at the ankle. Iceland sat down about two feet away from him and leaned back on his hands.

"So…are you psychic or something?" Iceland asked agitatedly. He looked at Norway, who was staring intently at the moon.

"No." he replied.

"Then how did you find out about…" Iceland took a breath. "Hanatamago's death?"

"Logic." Norway replied immediately.

Iceland stared at his brother incredulously and waved a hand, indicating Norway to explain himself.

"Hm. A dog Hanatamago's size cannot, in any way, escape from the house. Finland left her food, toys, and water; therefore, her needs were covered. There is nothing that would be able to stop her barking, as you know." Iceland noted the reference to Hanatamago's earsplitting yaps. "She would've barked loudly enough for us to hear should she have gotten stuck under the bed or in the bathroom, however, none of the doors were left closed."

"Oh." Iceland said lamely. He repressed a yawn. Iceland remained suspicious. Norway

"And you?" Norway turned to face him, gazing at Iceland curiously. "You were distracted by something during the funeral today."

"Well…I was just thinking about Mr. Puffin." Iceland said, ill at ease.

"Ah, Mr. Puffin. Quite a character." Norway said softly. "He's dear to you, is he not?"

"He seems to be more fond of you, really. Then again, I don't talk to animals." Iceland said with a dry laugh. He didn't really know what that crazy bird meant to him. Just a companion up in lonely Iceland.

Norway hummed.

"But seriously, how the hell do you talk to animals?" Iceland demanded. "It's just messed up on so many levels.

"I can't talk to all animals." Norway said. "Only certain ones."

"Tthat doesn't explain your clairvoyance or whatever it is you have." Iceland said defensively. He had a burning envy for Norway right now. Norway was so talented, and Iceland felt severely mediocre just sitting next to him. The feeling of mediocrity, when mixed with his commonplace (but less often, as of late) discomfort with Norway, made Iceland feel angry.

"The augury came this morning, while we were on the plane. I opened a magazine on a page featuring a happy family and there dog and I just knew." Norway explained shortly. He gazed at Iceland for a while. "Don't look so glum. Sweden has it too, but his episodes of clairvoyance happen much less often than mine. I wouldn't be surprised if you developed it at some point."

"Whatever. Sixth senses are for strange people." Iceland snorted.

"You're just saying that because I have it and you don't." Norway taunted, rumpling Iceland's hair. Iceland decided to get equal by shoving Norway.

"So?" Iceland raised an eyebrow. "It's true."

"You feel insignificant compared to me, don't you?" Norway insisted. He looked at Iceland again, but this time, Norway's eyes blazed, because he knew, and he was right. But Iceland, stubborn as always, would never admit it.

"Shut up. No one would ever envy you." Iceland sneered.

"As you would say, 'whatever'." Norway said flatly. He didn't want to provoke his testy little brother into boycotting him completely. "Let's go inside."

Iceland shrugged in agreement and followed Norway into the house. Iceland made a beeline for the kitchen, but stopped short when he saw Finland slumped against the door of his pantry, bottle of vodka held loosely in hand.

"It's all my fault." Finland murmured, shakily setting the bottle of vodka back on the counter.

"It's not. Hanat'mago died o' natural causes." Sweden said softly. He took the tall glass bottle from Finland's hands and rather carelessly shoved it into a cabinet nearby. "An' alc'hol isn't gonna solve th' probl'm."

"I just can't believe this happened." Finland said dejectedly as he shook his head.

"Go t' bed." Sweden pointed in the direction of the staircase. "'S'not good for y' t' be up so late."

"I can't sleep." Finland said under his breath.

Sweden stroked his chin thoughtfully. His luminescent eyes flickered to the window, as if something had caught his attention. He approached Finland cautiously and tugged on Finland's shirtsleeve, trying to get Finland's attention. Finland, slightly inebriated, finally looked up at Sweden. Sweden made a face and held his arms out to Finland, who scowled at him but accepted the embrace.

"Iceland, join us." Sweden said—rather, commanded .

"Wait, but I'm just—" Iceland shut up. Sweden had just given Iceland the one of the lowers he reserved for Denmark. Terrified, Iceland was coerced into the group hug. Damn. All he wanted was food, not to be dragged into these matters.

"Oh, fine." Iceland mumbled, wrapping his arms around Finland. Almost immediately after that, Denmark strode into the kitchen looking for more beer (Finland's fridge would be devoid of beer by tomorrow), but abandoned his intentions almost immediately and joined the group hug on a whim, mumbling something about how much he loved group hugs.

"You guys, seriously…" Finland said halfheartedly. He wriggled out of Sweden's grasp, but Sweden wouldn't let him go, and neither would Denmark.

"Hugs always make people feel better." Denmark said reasonably.

"Th't's right." Sweden agreed. It was probably the only thing he and Denmark would ever agree on, and that fact made Iceland snicker.

"By the way, Finland, what vodka were you drinking? I smell it in your breath." Denmark said with a small laugh.

Sweden parted the hug to pound his fist into Denmark's head for being stupid, and Norway, who had just appeared, decided to land yet another blow to Denmark's head.

"Ow! Man, I'm going to get a skull fracture if you people keep hitting me." Denmark said under his breath.

"You're much too thickheaded for that," Norway said under his breath. He was forced into the group hug as well, and almost succeeding in slipping out, but Iceland wasn't going to see Norway run free from this spur-of-the-moment hug fest. Oh, hell no. Denmark and Iceland locked Norway in— success. That way, Iceland wouldn't be the only one feeling like a huge pansy. Were they manly former Vikings or ditzy teenage girls?

Then again, it was interesting to see how these hardened men had soft sides. Sweden wasn't as frightening, Denmark wasn't as stupid, and Norway wasn't as emotionless as they each appeared to be. They all flipped in personality in times of need, displaying incredible mental flexibility. Maybe being in touch with feelings was something that came after a long, long life.

"B'lieve me, I _want _y' t' get a sk'll fr'cture." Sweden growled. "Idiot."

"But then Denmark would die, like—like—" Finland bit back a spastic sob.

"Good job, Sweden." Iceland said sarcastically. As if this group hug thing wasn't uncomfortable enough. Oddly enough, Denmark and Sweden seemed to love this whole warm-fuzzy affair.

"S'rry, Finland. Didn't mean 't th't way." Sweden murmured soothingly. "Shh. C'lm down."

"You guys are the best." Finland said, lilac eyes gleaming with tears. He flashed them a warm, watery smile. "I don't know what I'd do without you. Why are you all so nice to me?"

"Because you're nice to us." Norway said flatly.

"We wouldn't be the Nordics without you." Denmark chuckled.

At this point, Norway made a move to escape, but Denmark and Iceland shoved Norway back in. Norway clenched his jaw in irritation. It was getting a little warm in that hug. Iceland himself was about ready to break it off, but there was something oddly comforting about the warmth between them. He felt really lame there but at the same time he didn't want to let go. They were weird, yes, but they were the closest people Iceland had.

"But, ah, I'd like to get some sleep, per Sweden's request." Finland said. "So…could you all back up?"

Norway and Iceland freed themselves at once, leaving Finland to wriggle out of Sweden and Denmark's grasp.

Once Finland was in his room, Sweden stooped down to the floor and removed his shoe, shoving it in the door. He then went to the staircase and put his other shoe in a strategic place.

"That way, if 'e tries t' run 'way t' c'mmit suicide somewhere, 'e won't 'scape without me knowin'." Sweden mumbled. "I've already g't his windows and I'm sleepin' with mine open t'night."

"He'd do that?" Iceland said dubiously. Finland was too happy. He enjoyed life and people way too much. Finland always smiled and laughed and acted kindly to everyone…and everything. He was famous do-gooder and knew how to comfort others. No, not Finland. He wouldn't dare try to kill himself.

"You don't know?" Denmark turned a pair wide, blue eyes to Iceland, and then to Norway, but upon meeting Norway's gaze, Denmark's eyes hardened and his tone became stony. "You didn't tell him, Norway?"

"Denmark, I—" Norway began, in defense of himself.

"Tell me what?" Iceland said curiously.

""When Tove Jansson died a little over nine years ago, Finland didn't leave his house for a weeks." Norway explained shortly.

"Yeah, so? You don't leave your house, either." Iceland said with a shrug. "And who the hell is Tove Jansson?"

"The author of the Moomins." Norway said slowly, in a isn't-it-obvious tone.

"Oh. So he didn't leave his house. And?" Iceland pressed

"Stop being an insensitive brat." Norway snapped. "It was very serious.

"Finland is…he's, well—hm. He gets attached to things and people, and…" Denmark searched for the words. "Finland doesn't take death well. At all."

"Twelve suicide 'ttempts." Sweden said with a slow nod. His eyes narrowed a bit, as if he was thinking hard about something.

"You're kidding." Iceland said. "Finland?"

"He's had a difficult life, making him emotionally hardy in most aspects. When death is involved, he loses it." Norway said solemnly.

"You haven't noticed the scars?" Denmark inquired, raising an eyebrow. "They're shallow but still pretty noticeable."

"Where?" Iceland asked. Finland wasn't a canvas of scars like Sweden, Denmark, and Norway were. He didn't have scars circling his legs and crosshatching on his chest. Then again, Finland wore wintry clothing most of the time, so maybe Iceland just hadn't seen them because of that.

Sweden abruptly grabbed Iceland's right arm. He pushed the sleeves up and turned his arm over, exposing Iceland's smooth, pale forearm. Sweden extended his pointer finger and drew horizontal slashes all the way up to the crook of Iceland's elbow. Iceland resisted a shiver. There was something about that part of his arm that simply unnerved him. When he was in the hospital, the nurses came to take his blood often, and each time he came close to fainting.

"Finland went through m' med'cal books," Sweden mumbled. "He knew where t' cut, what t' overdose on, how t' asphyxiate himself…" he trailed off, letting the thought hang in the warm, fragrant air of Finland's house.

"Finland tried to drown himself, hang himself, set himself on fire in the kitchen, drink himself into a coma, just about everything that could be done with household items." Denmark explained. He sighed. "If Sweden didn't visit the time he visited, Finland would've been dead."

"Mhmm. I had t' live with 'im f'r a while," Sweden said. "T' watch him. 'ven with me there, he tried t' kill hims'lf."

"Do you think that has something to do with his alcoholism?" Norway posed the question.

"No. Finland's been an alc'holic f'r at least a cent'ry 'r two." Sweden murmured.

"His alcoholism is different than mine. I drink for fun and because it tastes good but Finland drinks to numb himself And because it tastes good." Denmark said with a sad smile.

"Ev'ry time he g'ts drunk, I wonder if he's tryin' t' die." Sweden whispered. He winced a little bit and folded his arms. He appeared to be extremely concerned. Iceland hadn't seen him look so pensive and pained before.

"He's not going to try anything now, is he?" Iceland said, glancing down the hall at Finland's room.

"'f he does, I'll know." Sweden said darkly. "'M goin' t' bed. G'night."

"Sleep well." Norway said to him. He watched Sweden lumber down the hall and walk into his room. Norway made a face—one of indecipherable feeling. Iceland wondered what he was thinking about. But more than anything, Iceland wondered what kind of secrets Denmark and Sweden and Norway held.

"I had no idea Finland was like that." Iceland said quietly, forcing himself to walk down the corridor, to the room he'd sleep in. "He seems so happy."

"Too happy." Denmark corrected. "Too happy to be sane, at least."

"I'm going to bed. Bye." Iceland said gruffly. He didn't feel like talking about this anymore. He turned on his heel and disappeared into his room. Too lazy to change out of his clothing, he kicked his shoes off and slid under the covers. He had a lot to think about that night. Finland. Iceland wondered if he slept in a room where one of those attempts had been made. The thought made his heart thump a little faster. He racked his mind for deep secrets and scars like what Finland had (and probably Sweden, Denmark, and Norway, too), but found none. How pitiful. Iceland was so naïve and shallow compared the others. Whatever, the fewer secrets, the better—less drama and angst and other pointless feelings, Iceland decided. With a short, impatient sigh, Iceland rolled onto his stomach, the way he liked to sleep, and watched the digital clock for a few minutes before finally closing his eyes and resolutely trying to sleep.

* * *

Sorry this chapter is so long. I wanted to elaborate but it's too long and no one likes long chapters hnnng.

Promised pic here: ladyrever. deviantart. com/#/d360zh6 (without spaces)

Please review. (If you have this fic on alert I expect a review derp)


	13. Dangers

Chapter 13: Illegally Legal

* * *

By the time Iceland summoned the energy and motivation to crawl out of his unfamiliar but warm bed, it was nearly noon. He had been awake for an hour, but he didn't want to go downstairs and see his fellow Nordics.

Iceland eased the door open and stepped into the sunny, glowing corridor. Silvery dust motes danced in the air and the house was quiet. He felt no life around him, and heard nothing. Had they all gone somewhere? Iceland turned on his heel and retreated to his room. His eyes roved the bed, the dresser, the floor for any notes left behind. He found a piece of paper lying on the floor by his shoes. How strange! Had he knocked it off the bedside table in ripping the covers off of himself? Iceland stooped down and picked the note up.

_Iceland,_

_ We've gone out. I will explain later. Denmark will be home. _

_ Norway_

"What happened?" Iceland asked. He then felt stupid, because no one was around to answer. Shrugging it off, he descended the stairs and strode into the living room. He stopped short at seeing there was something serious going in the room that he did not wish to be a part of.

Sweden sat on the couch, still and blank-faced, as Denmark and Norway stood nearby. Finland sat alone on the sofa on the other side of the room, glaring out the window. Iceland spotted a rosy ring around his neck. His blood ran cold at that moment. He glanced at the note in his hands that he had habitually folded and opened it. Yes—it made sense. They had gone to the hospital because of a suicide attempt. That was the only explanation Iceland could think of behind the angry red mark around Finland's neck.

Iceland took a half-step back.

"Why d'you do this t' yourself, Finland?" Sweden asked in an even, eerily toneless voice.

"I don't know." Finland said quietly. "I loved Hanatamago."

"Suicide won't solve any problems." Denmark said gently, crossing the room to sit with Finland.

"But it ends them." Finland said darkly.

Then, Denmark changed. The optimistic, sympathetic gleam to his eyes became stony and irritated, becoming a glare, and his eyebrows cocked into frown.

"How selfish." He said coldly. "Because you really think you have it the worst, is that right?"

"Don't twist my words." Finland returned.

"I'm not twisting, anything, Finland." Denmark responded. "You think your life is the worst, that you have the most suffering. You'd really commit suicide to leave Sweden alone?"

"I—" Finland began.

"Be quiet." Norway snorted, casting a warning look at Finland. Finland, disarmed by Norway's sharp tone, normally reserved for Denmark, closed his mouth and kept silent.

"After all he does for you, after all he has done for you in the past." Denmark grumbled, running a hand through his impossibly messy blond hair. "You don't know what it's like for him."

Iceland took another step back. This wasn't his business, as much as it intrigued him. Norway's piercing cadet blue eyes flickered to meet Iceland's, and softened for a moment before turning hard once again. There was no indication for Iceland to leave or to enter, so he remained rooted to the spot waiting for an order. He looked down at the soft carpet. One of Hanatamgo's old toys rested by his left foot.

Meanwhile, Sweden said nothing, simply staring fixedly at a spot just over Finland's head. He appeared determinedly stoic. Even then, Iceland noted his agitation as he gently tugged at the collar of his shirt, and as he bit his lip. But Iceland suspected the latter action was to keep composure. Iceland's speculations were confirmed when Norway patted Sweden's shoulder.

Finland only lowered at Denmark. His hand drifted to a ridge between couch cushions, as if he was searching for the remote. At that moment, Iceland had a feeling things were going to get bad. He couldn't explain it, but he knew it, and the epiphany compelled him to take another step back. Iceland's eyes wandered to the front door. The palms of his hands became wet.

"You disgust me," Denmark said stoutly.

And before he knew it, the tip of a small, shiny handgun was aimed at his chest.

"He's snapped." Denmark said bluntly, throwing a significant look at Sweden, who barely reacted to Finland's whiplash. Denmark leapt up from his place on the couch and watched Finland keenly.

"Don't you dare—" A click sounded from the gun. Denmark cut himself off.

"Shoot either of us and I will eviscerate you. That," Norway growled, keeping an eerie calm tone, "is a promise."

Finland kept his silence and switched his aim to Iceland. Iceland's blood ran cold. His mind reeled and his heart thrashed against his ribs and the adrenaline numbed his muscles—he'd never been in such a situation. Instinctively, he looked to Norway for help, but Norway was utterly powerless.

Then, Sweden sidestepped in front of Iceland, arms spread protectively.

"Not Iceland." He said firmly.

And back again at Denmark.

"Iceland," Sweden whispered over his shoulder. "G't out. Jus' go."

Iceland nodded and managed to rip his feet off the spot he stood. He swiftly made his way to the back door and eased it closed behind him, making a run for the rolling meadows that sprawled behind Finland's house. With a sigh, he threw himself on the soft grass. A rather cold breeze passed over him, but Iceland was feverishly full of thoughts as his mind reeled. He remembered the conversation about Finland from last night, and he wondered what he had slept through this morning that led to the events that transpired inside the house. In a matter of hours, his perception of Finland had been mangled. He never thought Finland would be the one to hold him at gunpoint—no, Iceland thought Norway would be the one, and snickered at his own stupidity before sobering. He had no reason to laugh. What he feared—albeit childishly—had happened. Why now? Had Finland really snapped? Now the questions burned on his trembling lips. The sun was so warm but Iceland felt so cold. Why? He rolled over onto his stomach and anxiously glanced up at Finland's house, painted a warm yellow color. Its sunny exterior was such a façade for what happened inside, just like Finland himself.

Iceland did not know how much time he passed by humming his favorite songs and plucking blades of emerald green grass to throw into the swirling breeze. Then, something blocked the sunlight.

"Norway…" Iceland trailed off, waiting for the man above him to say something. Was it Norway? Iceland assumed so—who else would it be? Or was it Finland, having killed everyone in the house? The sun was too bright. He was quiet. Iceland couldn't see his face, something that strangely unnerved him.

Iceland blinked a few times. Yes, it was Norway.

"So, what happened?" Iceland made another attempt to stir an answer from his older brother. He sat up and from there rose to full height—not many more centimeters until he would be the same height as Norway.

"Come with me." Norway said.

"Don't be evasive." Iceland said under his breath. "What happened?"

"Finland seems to have lost it. Completely." Norway said somberly, glancing at Iceland.

"Yeah, I mean…he pointed a gun at me." Iceland's voice dropped to a whisper as he went on, but he didn't know why.

"Are you all right?" Norway stopped hiking up the hill to scrutinize Iceland.

"I'm fine." Iceland waved a hand. "What about everyone else?"

"There were no casualties," Norway said in a lighthearted tone, almost teasing. "That wouldn't happen."

"Let me guess—you summoned your fake things to protect you?" Iceland said, rolling his eyes.

"For the last time, Iceland, they are not fake. You've seen them many times before." Norway said, eyes flashing with annoyance. "Let me ask—do you believe in elves?"

"Yeah." Iceland replied. Duh. Elves were everywhere.

"And you don't believe in dragons, trolls, and fairies, even though you've seen them?"

"Whether they exist or not doesn't mean doesn't mean I have to acknowledge or believe in them." Iceland replied.

Norway snorted in dissent and opened the door to Finland's house. Iceland was little hesitant to walk in. He didn't know how he felt about seeing Finland, who had him at gunpoint. Oh, but it was his first firearms experience, which was kind of cool.

Denmark headed the kitchen table, acting as mediator, and sipped beer casually. He seemed to be distinctly unperturbed by the occurrence, radiating sympathy as he surveyed the two. Sweden clasped his hands upon the smooth tabletop and his eyes were deliberately downcast, as if he never wanted to look at someone again. Directly across from him sat Finland, slouching in the chair, spent. Red rimmed lavender eyes glimmered with tears upon seeing Iceland shuffle into the room.

"I'm s-sorry, Iceland." Finland murmured, staring Iceland right in the eye. "I-I d-don't know what happened. Please f-forgive me."

"It's all right, I guess." Iceland shifted uncomfortably. "I'm fine. How are you?"

Finland shrugged, but did not smile. He averted his watery gaze to the wall as he rose from his sea.

"Well, it's been a rough two days, hasn't it?" Denmark said with a sigh. "I think we should do something, fun, unordinary to get our minds off this mess."

"Like what?" Norway prompted with a scowl. He appeared to be interested, but became wary as Finland was slinking out of the room.

"Where are you going?" Norway demanded, blocking the exit.

"I'm going to take a shower." Finland said stonily.

"Quickly." Norway growled, letting Finland pass.

Finland paused to throw Norway a downright terrifying, evil glare with those blazing lavender eyes. Iceland had never seen anything like it—even though the look wasn't aimed at him, he cringed inwardly. Norway hadn't noticed, because Norway's back was already turned, but Iceland wondered how his older brother would've handled that.

"You're being an ass, Norway," Iceland said flatly. Why the animosity? Finland hadn't done anything to Norway—or maybe he had, while Iceland was outside.

"Finland pointed the gun at you." Norway grumbled.

Iceland drew breath to speak, but had nothing to say. Of course. Norway's big brother instincts had been tested that moment. Norway seemed more agitated about the event than Iceland himself. He just cleared his throat and mumbled, "Give Finland a break."

"He d'serves it." Sweden mumbled. He averted his gaze to the window stared outside with a determinedly blank expression, but Iceland noted the sadness that clouded Sweden's normally clear blue eyes. He blinked, held his eyes closed for a moment, as if pained, and looked down at the floor, bringing a hand up to his neck. He began to rub, fingers reaching his jawline, tracing. If Iceland didn't know the circumstances, he would've guessed Sweden was feeling for a few spots he had missed while shaving— but his caresses were more contemplative than casual. Then it occurred to Iceland—the mark around Finland's neck. Sweden was tracing his neck as if the mark was on him. As Sweden imagined the suicide a sickened grimace twisted his face.

"So, what are we going to do with Finland?" Iceland inquired. "What if he tries again? Is Finland really that unstable?

"Everything is going to be fine." Denmark said soothingly. He looked serious for once, and gazed at Sweden intently. He gave Sweden a manly pat on the back. Sweden placed his right elbow on the table and put his chin in hand, biting on the inside of his cheek to keep his lip from trembling. He frowned and once again looked somewhere else.

"Come on, Sweden, stop worrying." Denmark insisted, smiling sympathetically. Behind clenched, white smile that he held in place on his countenance was the worry in Denmark's voice.

"Can't." Sweden mumbled, barely opening his mouth.

"Y' don't understand." He said darkly.

"Obviously not," Norway sniffed. "Would you like to explain to us, Sweden? This is very unlike you."

"I 'ave t' watch him all the time t' make sure 'e doesn't try anything." Sweden grumbled. "Jus' when I thought he was getting there—" Sweden paused to adjust his glasses. Iceland glanced at Norway, who had noted Sweden's nervous habit. His glasses were just fine. "'e did it again."

"I never would have guessed." Iceland said under his breath.

"We will tell no one." Norway said darkly. He looked at Iceland very sternly, as if he expected Iceland to tell someone. Iceland returned the look with one of his signature, almost challenging looks.

"Is there any way to, like, put him in a mental hospital?" Iceland asked. He suddenly realized how cruel his words sounded, but since no one had a significant reaction to it, he figured he was in the clear.

"If Finland was human, then yes." Norway said with a nod. "But a nation cannot do that for fear of exposing secrets and our true identities."

"Oh…" Iceland hadn't thought of that. "So what's why Russia and Belarus aren't in a mental hospital."

"Right." Denmark said in an almost begrudging tone. "The only people that know about the whole nation thing are our countries leaders, high profile military generals, and certain doctors. And maybe a few very, very close friends—if that."

"Why does he 'ave t' take everything so damn badly?" Sweden mumbled tremulously.

"Well, some people are like that." Denmark said gently yet firmly. "Look, everything will work itself out—I promise."

It was so strange to see Denmark's reasonable side— Iceland had no idea Denmark had any sensitivity. Nor did he expect Denmark to act so kindly to Sweden, especially since the two were on bad terms (not entirely reciprocated by Denmark, who treated everyone more or less the same) more often than not. It was touching, even more so, when Denmark slung an arm around Sweden when Sweden gave the long, disconsolate sigh that forecasted an actual display of emotion. Denmark's placid smile faded and he exchanged an indecipherable glance with Norway, who looked equally somber.

And this was Iceland's cue to leave. He didn't want to see this, not now, not today, and not Sweden. In a rather jerky, speedy motion, he pushed his chair back and leapt up, slinking toward the door. Norway too stood up, but only to sit closer to Sweden.

And the most maddening thing was that Iceland felt like they knew something he didn't.

Iceland fled the kitchen, swerving into the living room and stomping up the stairs, nearly running right into Finland, with towels slung over his arm. Finland drew a breath and held it, finally letting it go with a raspy "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize to me." Iceland said softly, tilting his head very slightly, subconsciously to the staircase nearby.

"I can't go back down there." Finland said desperately, shaking his head viciously.

"Why not?" Iceland murmured.

"Your brother." Finland said in a wavering voice.

"Norway won't do anything." Iceland said with a wave of his hand. "He's lazy."

"He wants to kill me!" Finland breathed as tears wavered in his eyes. "The gun was supposed to be for self defense, but...s-since I held you at gunpoint, and—"

"Oh my God." Iceland seethed. "It's like you people think I'd be scared shitless about that. I've played video games before—maybe you guys haven't, but I have. I've been desensitized."

"Well, you've never fought in a war." Finland said with a wry chuckle. "But—"

"Let me finish." Iceland said sternly. He paused, listening to himself, at repressed a disgusted shudder—his tone, his words were too familiar— it was as if Norway had spoken through Iceland. "What is terrifying isn't your…habits, the gun, or Norway. It's Sweden."

"Sweden is always scary." Finland said quietly, shifting his weight uncomfortably.

"No, it was…" Iceland trailed off. The last bit of Sweden he saw before running out of the kitchen flashed before his eyes. The hopeless slump of his body, his trembling chin in his hand and the teary, cloudy blue eyes roving the kitchen, the window, anything to avoid eye contact with anyone. The stark contrast to stoic, deadpan man Sweden was who more often than look looked blank or angry.

"It wasn't that, it was just…the look on his face, it was just—I can't describe it." Iceland said. His voice fell into a weary whisper. "I've never seen anything like it."

"Please don't think of me as a bad person." Finland said desperately, almost moaning. "Please, Iceland, please."

"I don't." Iceland said firmly. No, he liked Finland. Finland was relatively sensible (not so much in the past few days) and he was certainly a lot more pleasant to be around than the others.

"I promise, I will get back up." Finland murmured. He ran a hand through his hair.

"I know, I know." Iceland said hastily. He was tired of this conversation. Then he added, "Tell that to Sweden— and prove it."

"He won't believe me…" Finland said under his breath. "Especially after this."

"Are you a man?"

"Yes." Finland responded, distinctly annoyed by Iceland's rhetorical question.

"Then do it." Iceland growled. "Norway is the least of your problems—Denmark will step in and protect you, as will Sweden."

"You don't understand." Finland said coldly. "Norway holds grudges."

"Is that really going to stop you?" Iceland prompted. "Just apologize to him."

"Not without you there." Finland whispered emphatically, wide eyed.

"Finland…" Iceland groaned, smacking his forehead with his hand. "I have nothing to do with this. Leave me out."

"But Norway is nice when you're around."

"Bullshit." Iceland said, rolling his eyes. "Apologize to him, tell Sweden what you told me, and then tell me how it went."

At this moment, Iceland was thankful for not being a teenage girl. This was already way too much unnecessary drama for him. He felt like striking Finland, who stood before him, squirming uncomfortably. Instead of landing one of his signature football kicks to Finland's leg, he decided to shove Finland in the direction of the stairs. Iceland heard Denmark's voice and characteristically Danish accent, rising and falling in a pleasant cadence while Norway's monotone created a very quiet, but pleasant undertone

"But I was going to shower—"

Iceland aimed a terrible lower at Finland which was enough to send Finland down the stairs without a another word but not without an indecipherable, but somewhat vindictive look at Iceland.

"Just like your brother." Finland said under his breath.

Iceland shrugged, indicating how little he cared and turned on his heel. He had some snooping around to do.

Iceland meandered into Finland's room, a rather bare space smelling strongly of salmiakki and Finland himself. Iceland's gaze fell upon the dresser. He began the search the way he always did, by tucking feelings away and bracing himself for what he was about to find. This was a time to be purely objective and investigative. Without further ago, Iceland grasped the knobs firmly and yanked a drawer open. He plunged his hands into the neatly folded clothes, running his fingers along the wood until he hit something hard and oblong. His fingers closed around the object, and he withdrew a pocket knife. With a smirk, Iceland slipped the knife into his pocket, moving on to the next drawer. And in a pair of black trouser socks, Iceland found a few pills, along with a suicide note. He knew time was running out before Finland returned, so he tore apart all the drawers searching for other paraphernalia. Nothing more. Iceland dropped to his knees and peered under Finland's bed. Only a few toys of Hanatamago's. Next came the bedside table. In ripping the third drawer open, Iceland spotted a few gun clips and rubber bands, loaded. Those went in his other pocket, along with the lighter and matches hidden underneath the mattress. In a nondescript bookshelf, hidden behind books, Iceland hit upon a few large bullets. He was getting closer to something. Iceland's sharp lilac eyes strayed to the closet. Behind shirts and pants and a shoe rack, Iceland spotted a sleek blue rifle, keys, and a noose, already tied. He stashed the keys in his pocket and grabbed the noose in his hands. The rifle was heavy, but Iceland couldn't tell if it was loaded. Without a second thought, Iceland snatched the rifle up, scampering to his room and tossing everything under the bed. He'd show the items to Norway later, who could probably dispose of them somehow.

Iceland heard a knock at the door. He jumped up from the bed and sighed—it was only Norway.

"What are you doing?" Norway asked, cadet blue eyes narrowing with suspicion at Iceland's surprise.

"Nothing." Iceland lied with a shake of his head. "Just, uhh…sitting here. Yeah."

"…Is something wrong?" Norway asked after a good five seconds of staring fixedly at Iceland.

"No, not right now." Iceland said quickly, shrinking under Norway's lower. "Maybe soon. But we'll cross that bridge when we get to it, right?"

"What are you hiding?" Norway asked calmly.

"Nothing." Iceland almost shouted.

Norway rolled his eyes inconspicuously, turning his eye roll into a casual glance at the ceiling. Then, his sharp eyes began to search the room and he tensed up, assuming the poise of a warrior, as if something was going to jump out at him. Only Norway.

"Saxons aren't going to assault you here. Maybe a rifle, but there's definitely not one of those in here. Or a noose." Iceland clamped a hand to his mouth. The longer Norway stared at him, the more slipped past his lips. "But that would be ridiculous—there's no suicide paraphernalia here."

"None that belongs to you, anyway. Were you engaging in illegal activities?" Norway drawled. He grabbed Iceland by his shoulders and moved Iceland out of the way so that Norway could drop to his knees and peer under the bed.

"What do you mean by illegal?" Iceland said evasively.

"You, Iceland, would call it investigating—" Norway said flatly. He stopped speaking. And then, in an incredulous but cold tone Norway said, "Is that a rifle?"

"I found it in Finland's closet." Iceland said.

Norway pulled the rifle out from under the bed and weighed it in his hands, frowning.

"A nice one." Norway remarked. Yes, sleek and black.

"Is it loaded?"

Norway nodded. He ripped the magazine out of the rifle and threw the gun onto the bed, watching as Iceland emptied the pills, lighter, gun clips, knife, rubber bands, and bullets, all of the suicide paraphernalia Iceland had found, onto the mattress. Iceland glanced at Norway, who has put a finger to his lip in thought. Iceland could've sworn he lost a bit of coloring to his elegant countenance.

He mumbled something in Norwegian.

"So, what do we do now?" Iceland inquired.

"I'll dispose of this and tell Sweden right away." Norway said with a sure nod of this head as he gathered everything in his arms. "I'll be back very soon. If things get bad, summon something."

"Wait, what? Like—like a dragon or fairy? And how then hell do I do that?" Iceland demanded. Norway marched to the window and lifted it open, crouching on the sill. Iceland stomped after his brother. Where was he going? And what was he doing?

"Until you figure out how it's done, just be careful." Norway said over his shoulder. And with that, he jumped. Iceland looked down at the shrubs below, but Norway was gone. And then Iceland looked up. Flying toward the orange horizon, sleek and shiny as the rifle, was Níðhöggr, the dragon of death, with Norway on his back.

For a moment, awe had stolen Iceland's breath and sealed his throat. There they went, riding the winds of the autumn day— or perhaps creating the wind, given the speed at which they traveled, before they disappeared into the warm daylight just like that.

"Freak." Iceland grumbled, dumping himself back on the bed. He blinked.

And he woke in darkness. The analog clock nearby said it was eight thirty in the evening, meaning he had been asleep for six hours or so. How did that happen? He didn't remember anything. His hand brushed by a piece of paper as he switched the light on. A note from Finland. It had to be from Finland, with the large, loopy writing. But Iceland tossed it on the floor, because he really wasn't interested in what happened while he slept. And for the second time that day, he hauled himself down the stairs and wandered into the living room.

Sweden sipped beer and browsed the internet on his laptop while Denmark and Finland batted against each other in some old video game on an even older gaming console. Finland and Sweden still looked sad, but Finland was finally smiling and Sweden appeared to be very, very relaxed.

It was as if nothing had happened. Iceland rubbed his eyes and sank into the couch between Norway and Sweden. Sweden appeared to be booking a first class flight to Rome for the World Conference one month away, which reminded Iceland to get around to that. Meanwhile, Norway watched, distinctly uninterested, as Denmark and Finland battled each other in the game.

"What happened?" Iceland whispered to Norway.

"I'll tell you later." Norway said evasively.

"When is later?" Iceland questioned.

"When I feel like getting up." Norway replied frankly. "I won't talk about it here."

"Lazy." Iceland hissed.

"Says the one who napped for six hours." Norway returned.

Norway made a move to rumple Iceland's already tousled hair, but Iceland dodged the attack by rising from the couch to make his way to the kitchen, but not without a haughty, teasing smirk at Norway, who almost smiled back (his lip had twitched slightly) before rolling his eyes. After all, if he got up, he'd have to tell Iceland everything that he missed. Truthfully, Norway just didn't want to relive the moment.

* * *

I haven't been quite like my normal self when writing—it seems I have forgotten how to write. I apologize for that.

But please review.


	14. Conferences

Chapter 14: Antisocial

* * *

By now, Christmas spirit should have been searing through Iceland's veins. No. Other than a few Christmas tunes he hummed out of pure boredom, Iceland felt no desire to decorate his house, buy gifts for people, or even leave his house. He should've at least been binge drinking delicious beer and dancing around for the hell of it, but he did none of that. Iceland scoffed at mentions of the jólasveinar that were supposed to start showing up around town starting on the twelfth; that very morning, in fact.

He sat on his bed that morning, glaring at the sleet falling past his window. It was not even six fifteen. He couldn't sleep, due to his teenage ravaged circadian rhythm and because he force once didn't want to sleep. Iceland was sick of sleeping, having slept sixteen hours every night since the start of December. Sometimes he'd go to sleep in darkness and wake in darkness. His cyclical, angry thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door downstairs.

Interesting, but a bother nonetheless. Iceland sauntered down the stairs and Iceland lazily opened the door, expecting one of his forgetful maids who probably left her something or other in his house or wanted to harass him particularly early. But it was not her, rather, Sweden stood in the doorway.

"Pack yer bags," Sweden said, crossing the threshold and stepping into Iceland's warm house. He shed a heavy wool coat and tossed it onto the couch. Sweden surveyed Iceland's foyer before landing his expectant, somewhat haughty gaze on Iceland.

"Uh…" Iceland frowned. "No. You don't show up to people's houses and tell them to do things."

Sweden locked eyes with Iceland and stared, long and hard, into Iceland's lilac eyes. The submission technique may have worked on Finland, Estonia, and anyone else, but Iceland wasn't afraid of him. Sweden broke the gaze, shrugged, and lumbered up the stairs, leaving a dumbfounded Iceland near the front door.

"Seriously?" Iceland said exasperatedly. He sighed and scampered up the stairs, veering into his room.

"I'm calling the police," Iceland said sullenly as he watched Sweden rip clothing from his hangers and toss them on his unmade bed.

"'M on orders." Sweden grumbled.

"Yeah? From who, God?" Iceland snapped.

"Don't talk t' me like that." Sweden said calmly, assuming the tone of a seasoned parent. "C'lm down."

"I can't do that when you just storm into my house!" Iceland said. He felt his face began to color with anger.

"Y've been unreachable lately." Sweden said. "It must have slipped your mind that there's a world conf'rence."

"What?"

"World Conf'rence. Rome, Italy. Today to the sixteenth." Sweden murmured.

Once he found a duffel bag, he threw Iceland's clothing in there. Sweden observed his work with a finger to his lip, thinking, before he turned on his heel and raided Iceland's dresser. Sweden flung fistfuls of socks and underwear into the duffel bag. The last touch was a plump pillow Sweden plucked from underneath Iceland's covers. With that, his work was complete.

Iceland, on the other felt disgusted by the fact his privacy had been horribly invaded but also fascinated because he had never seen someone pack a suitcase so thoroughly and quickly.

"G't dressed. Th' flight's due t' leave in 'bout an hour." Sweden sauntered out of the room, leaving Iceland to dress.

Iceland threw on his usual outfit, shouldered an extra coat, and wrapped a scarf around his neck. He took one last look at his room and suddenly felt sad. Imagination had kicked in at that moment, compelling him to wonder if that was the last time he'd ever see his room. Iceland nearly scrawled a note for Mr. Puffin, but then he remembered he'd only need to ask Norway if Mr. Puffin was all right.

Two months had passed since Iceland had last seen Norway or any of his fellow Nordics. He didn't know why time had passed like that.

The two made forty five minute drive to the airport in silence, for Sweden stared out the window and Iceland sulked. He felt tired and angry and the black morning sky blanketed by clouds only added weight to his thoughts. Iceland stood in a state of limbo. He didn't even know what he liked anymore, or what he wanted.

When they arrived at Keflavik Airport,

Flying with Sweden was all right. He was a good flight buddy since he generally kept to himself and didn't smell bad. He didn't have the ridiculously enticing scent Norway had, but Sweden smelled clean, like detergent. As Iceland pondered the odd nature of individual aromas, he became distracted by Sweden, who Sweden managed to check his email on his phone, eat a snack, and read a cheap magazine during the take off. Iceland wondered even more how the cup of coffee in his hand hadn't drenched him and Iceland as the plane bounced unpleasantly in the takeoff, buffered by the thick clouds. The longer Iceland stared out the window, the more spooked he felt, especially as the plane turned well to the left.

"How long is the flight supposed to be?" Iceland mumbled. He shifted uncomfortably. Planes made him feel antsy. The unpleasant feeling of weightless unnerved him.

"'Bout three hours." Sweden replied.

"So…could you explain to me why you came and kidnapped me like this?" Iceland asked in a forcedly calm voice.

"Mmm." Sweden hummed and turned the page in the magazine.

Iceland assumed that was a yes and turned to face Sweden, awaiting an explanation. He had begun to lose patience.

"Y'ven't answered y'r phone or 'nything, and there's a conf'rence today. Y'r brother's been sick lately, s' I d'cided t' come up an' get y'." Sweden said shortly. "Otherwise, he'd've come."

"What's wrong with him?" Iceland asked the question with more interest than he intended, prompting Sweden to almost smile, which he hid as he finished his coffee off.

"Flu 'r something." Sweden harrumphed.

"Is he better?" Iceland questioned.

Sweden nodded.

Not thirty minutes later, Sweden passed out against the window. The man could sleep through anything. Iceland stretched his legs across the empty seat next to him and stared blankly for the remaining three hours.

On their connecting flight in Frankfurt, Iceland had, by chance, been seated next to Prussia. At seeing Prussia in the seat next to his, Iceland almost turned on his heel and decided to wait for another flight, since Prussia possessed _that _kind of personality. But then, common sense (I'm-not-a-loser sense) kicked in and Iceland plunked himself down in the seat next to the infamous Prussia.

"'Sup, bro?" Prussia greeted, extending his hand to Iceland.

Iceland expected a handshake but Prussia pulled him into some kind of shoulder touching deal that deeply befuddled Iceland. He and Prussia had only spoken thrice before.

"Not much…" Iceland said awkwardly. "And you?"

"All right, all right." Prussia said as he pulled large sunglasses over his eyes. At once, he began to hum loudly. Iceland exchanged frowns with Sweden, who sat on Iceland's right side this time, in the aisle seat.

Germany, sitting just across the aisle, rolled his eyes at his brother's antics and struck light conversation with Sweden.

Luckily, Prussia didn't make any strange advances. Rather, he made pleasant conversation and offered Iceland some of his beer. Iceland declined—he would not to settle for cheap airline beer. Besides, he preferred beer with a biting, robust taste. However, Iceland had an inclination toward vodka or some other fancy beer, only proving the face that Iceland had inherited Norway's expensive tastes. Norway wouldn't settle for anything subpar. His clothing, food, furniture, and car all had to be new, in excellent condition, and expensive. Yet, Norway wasn't materialistic—there was something about him, whether it was his constant reading or the old tomes of Norse mythology that he penned himself that made Norway a distinctly well-read and classy individual. However, Iceland was more passive when it came to fancy things—but Iceland certainly wouldn't settle for subpar alcohol.

"Hey, want to see pics of me being awesome?" Prussia asked suddenly, peering at Iceland over the rims of his sunglasses.

"Whatever."

Prussia fished a photo album out of his backpack and ripped it open on his lap.

"Nice outfit." Iceland snorted as he saw a picture of Prussia in weird clothing.

"The nineties—don't hate." Prussia chuckled. "Anyway—yeah, that's from when I broke my leg, and this is from Austria's birthday party, and _this _one_—_"

And Iceland steeled himself against the slow passing of time for the rest of the flight.

Sweden and Iceland darted out of the plane and strode out of the airport, only to be greeted by Spain almost at once. Better than Romano, at least.

"Ah, welcome, Sweden and Iceland, welcome to the beautiful city of Rome!" Spain sang out, with a dramatic gesture toward the city. His smile was so wide Iceland got a mental image of Spain's face falling off.

"Thanks." Sweden grunted.

"Where's everyone else?" Iceland asked, looking around.

"Romano took Finland and a few others to the hotel, since the conference is starting soon." Spain explained. He shifted his glowing green eyes to Iceland and said, "You brother, I took him to Romano's house. He looked so ill, _pobrecito._"

Iceland thought it was funny that, when Spain spoke, Finland, Iceland, and Sweden became "Feen-land", "_Ais_-land", and "Sweethen". Lisps peppered Spain's speech, along with much palatalization. The longer Iceland listened to Spain have a "conversation" (severely one-sided) with Sweden, the more he came to like Spain's accent. His accent had a certain grace, a certain mysterious nature to it. Iceland wished he had a pretty accent—but no. He just had to have one of the most difficult languages etched on his tongue, to point where Iceland rolled his r's—softly, of course— no matter what. When he tried to say them the way they were supposed to be said in English, he choked on his tongue.

"Well, I think that's all of you for now." Spain said, waving Germany, Prussia, and France over. Spain paused to receive crushing hugs from his two best friends, who nearly pounded the man into the ground with noogies and other brusqueness. Iceland empathized with Spain.

After a short walk and much strategic planning in placing the suitcases in the back of Spain's rickety old minivan (Iceland and Germany figured it out), the six of them piled in.

"Spain, your car is shit." France said with disapproval as he strapped himself in the front seat. He tossed his hair and adjusted the scarf around his neck.

"Yeah, seriously." Prussia piped up from the back row. "This car sucks. Why'd you bring it all the way here from your place?"

"I don't know." Spain shrugged. "I figured I should take Pablo here on an adventure."

Spain affectionately patted the dashboard of his minivan and his hand trailed straight to the radio from there.

Iceland decided to stare out the window as the city whizzed by. Before riding with Spain, Iceland thought it impossible for anyone to be a more careless driver than Finland. But Spain was a threat to Finland's title of Worst Driver Ever, because he was extremely distractible. Anything caught and held his attention.

"Can we try to not massacre the civilians?" Germany asked rather loudly.

"Ha! You haven't been in a car with Poland, have you?" France said, aiming a look of contempt at him.

"Or with you." Spain said under his breath, nodding toward France.

"There are some people who can't pay attention to the road, but Poland simply doesn't want to pay attention." France said.

Iceland wrinkled his nose at the pungent scent of cigarette smoke. Then he noticed a smoldering cigarette in France's hand. Disgusting.

The verbatim continued until they arrived at the hotel, a very old, magnificent structure. He and Sweden grabbed their luggage and began the ascent the steps to the main entrance. Finland, Denmark, and Norway stood there waiting for them. Finland and Denmark were rosy cheeked and grinning, but Norway, between them, had a chalky pallor to his countenance. Dark circles stained the skin under his eyes. Even though Norway maintained his characteristically aloof, arrogant expression, he lacked color to his face and looked thinner than normal, even under a well-fitted navy blue pea coat. He hardly smiled at Iceland and the hug was weak.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I just don't feel well."

"Good to see you guys!" Finland chirped, snatching Iceland's duffel bag. Iceland appreciated the gesture.

Finland and Denmark continued to chat, but Iceland lost track of the conversation because of a little scene playing out on the stairs. The ordeal brought a contemptuous grin to Iceland's lips.

"Oh my God." Iceland mumbled, stifling snickers.

South Italy, Romano, sat upon the steps leading up the old hotel where the conference would be taking place. He held a battered up cell phone to his ear and he was crying and yelling obscenities at whoever was unfortunate to be on the other line. His pants and blazer were wrinkled, his tie was crooked, and his greasy hair was dull in the hard Roman sunlight.

"You don't know his life. Try not to laugh," Finland said under his breath. He meant to look threatening but there was a little twitch of his lip that betrayed his feelings. Sweden gnawed on the inside of his cheek while Denmark stared rather pointedly at Romano, distinctly amused, but not to the point of laughter, because he'd been in that state a couple times, too, especially when he spent time with Prussia and England. They formed the alcoholic trio. Actually, Denmark revised his thought. It was usually England that ended up like Romano. Denmark was a happy drunk.

By now, Norway, next to Iceland, made a Herculean effort to keep from laughing and Iceland heaved with suppressed mirth. Life failures like that was very uncommon up in Reykjavik. But it made him laugh every time. Romano was supposed to be hosting this World Conference, but Iceland seriously doubted they'd actually get anything done or discussed.

Spain bounded up the steps to Romano, who immediately punched him and threw his phone at Spain, who dodged and attempted to lift Romano over his shoulders and drag him into the hotel. The results were a little less than pleasant, because Spain now had rips in his pants and Romano bore a few scrapes. And Norway was about to start crying from holding his laughter in. Iceland had already given up and watched the spectacle, snickering gleefully.

"He might really need help," Finland said, straggling behind the group.

"Who, Spain 'r R'mano?" Sweden questioned, shooting Finland an askance look.

"Um…both." Finland decided. He turned slightly as he decided whether or not to help. "Guys, I'll be there in a bit."

Finland hesitantly approached them. Spain waved him away as kindly as he could while he clutched his stomach, as Romano had just headbutted him.

"L't it out, Norge," Sweden said. A few titters escaped him. He began to walk faster, as if his own chortling had scared him off.

But Norway refused to give in to his amusement. Once inside the hotel, he doubled over, near hysterics. Yes, it was funny, but not that hilarious. Then again, it had already been made clear that Norway was a sadist, and it seemed he was never too sick to be sadistic. Right then, a sudden bout of coughing ruined his personal party.

"He should be renamed Shitaly." Norway murmured through hacks.

Iceland laughed—both at Norway's humor and Finland, who talked (communicated) to the bellhop about taking the luggage up to the room.

"I hope, for Romano's sake, that he was drunk." Denmark chuckled. He rolled the sleeves of his red dress shirt up to his forearms and loosened his black tie just a bit. He sighed and surveyed the ornate decorations and old architecture. He eventually wandered over to the concierge, and decided to charm her. He also remembered to ask where the conference room was.

The hotel lobby smelled like banknotes, coffee, and perfume. But the conference room, even more. Iceland took his place between Norway and Sweden. On Sweden's right side sat Finland, who had returned from the ordeal bearing a few bruises and a bite mark on his arm that looked way too human for it to be anything else. When Sweden asked about it, Finland pretended he didn't know what he was talking about and hastily turned to make conversation with Sealand, on his right.

Iceland watched as more nations filled the table. Now that Netherlands had arrived, Denmark had stopped harassing Norway and chosen to talk to Netherlands instead. Netherlands was, without a doubt, high. He was somewhat unresponsive and his bloodshot eyes were rather dull. He reeked of alcohol, too. But even though his current state was very obvious, he still managed to look more clean-cut and classy than Romano, who just stumbled into the room pressing toilet paper to a wound on his elbow. Spain limped into the room, prompting Prussia to give him a standing ovation as he sank into a seat between France and Prussia.

"Okay, people, shut up!" Romano yelled, banging on the table's old, dark wood. Germany, sitting a ways down the table, rubbed his eyes in exasperation. Laptops and notebooks were withdrawn from bags. Iceland didn't bring his. Damn it. Now he'd be bored for the next ten hours. He could always ask Norway to share his laptop, a gorgeous, sleek machine, but Norway wasn't _that_nice.

Romano began with some highly convoluted speech about pollution. Sweden had a few legible notes jotted down in his notebook. The last bullet point was followed by a hilarious line—'I can't understand this guy'. Sweden decided to busy himself by sketching a few other nations around the room out of boredom while Sealand played games on his laptop. Finland watched the courtyard outside. Norway had solitaire up on his laptop, and Denmark was both making paper planes and passing notes around the room. Boredom almost stopped Iceland's heart. Greece, the master of sleeping in any location, leaned his head against the high backed chair with his arms folded across his chest. He was well into a peaceful, deep sleep. France's eyelids had begun to fall over his eyes, and he sipped wine from the bottle rather carelessly. Iceland figured it would be fine to sleep, so he set his head down on the table some forty minutes into Romano's rant.

"Hey, you! Blondie! Wake the fuck up! Shit!" Romano screamed, flailing his arms around.

This imbecile would not get away with that. Iceland would make sure of it. Iceland whipped his head up from the table, eyebrows angled in a sharp, menacing frown as his eyes glowed with rising anger.

"God, can you just shut up?" Iceland snapped. His accent was more cutting than usual, the way it always became when he was annoyed. "No one is going to take you seriously and no one gives a damn."

There was a collective gasping following by some ooh-ing, some groans of annoyance, and Prussia's applause. Under the table, Norway patted Iceland's knee in a gesture of approval.

Romano gazed at Iceland, turning red as a—dare he think it—a tomato. Iceland bit his lip to keep from laughing as soon as he recalled a memory from some years ago, the day Iceland met Romano. When they met, Romano was eating tomatoes and making a mess and yelling at Iceland to stop staring. Iceland was downright offended by Romano, the incredibly volatile Italian that Spain always hung around with. He was also bit repulsed by Spain, who insisted on take pictures of Norway and him because they were "such cute brothers". And that was back when Norway and Iceland looked nothing alike. In the past months, Iceland had started to look more and more like Norway.

"I don't even—youth! The bane of soci—"

Switzerland cleared his throat very pointedly and rose from the table, making his way up to the front while Spain and Italy escorted Romano, irate once again, out of the room. Denmark smirked at Iceland, Finland nodded, and even Sweden patted Iceland's back brusquely in approval.

"Thank you for that." Switzerland said with an earnest nod in Iceland's direction.

"You're welcome." Iceland replied. He gave Switzerland a terse smile.

Switzerland removed his glasses and hooked them into his pocket. He cleared his throat once again to command attention, and began his spiel on the European economy. At least Iceland could follow what he spoke about—not that he really cared. Others did, though. Switzerland happened to be engaged in several debates at the moment, and Sweden had decided to jump in. When Iceland dozed off, Norway nudged him in the ribs. He loosened his tie and surveyed the room, squirming in his seat. World Conferences were such a joke, depending on who ran them. When people like Norway, Germany, and England ran them, things were accomplished. But even then they were relatively pointless. What could've been solved in a mass Facebook message involved traveling, manners, and staying in a foreign city, usually with significant language barriers. Iceland didn't have patience for any of those things.

And then, they were finally freed for a short break of ten minutes. Iceland stepped out of the hotel and wondered what he'd do next. He glanced at Norway, who happened to be tied up in a conversation with Austria and England. They looked so wealthy and classy standing around, sipping alcohol. Not even thirty seconds had passed before the nations split into their little cliques. Iceland even had the balls to steal a bit of food from Poland, who sat around devouring cookies and carbs as he talked to Lithuania and Hungary. Poland talked so fast and convolutedly that Iceland thought he was speaking to them in Polish. Whatever his spoke, he was distracted enough so that Iceland easily nicked a few cookies from him.

The meeting resumed, and Iceland put his chin in hand, ready to stay frozen in that position for the next eight hours or so. But then, something jabbed Iceland's elbow. He looked down and saw Norway's sleek black laptop. He met Norway's gaze, asking for an explanation. Sometimes, Norway didn't make. Sometimes, Iceland was being stupid.

"We'll switch off every hour or so," Norway said with a knowing wink. He gestured vaguely to the laptop.

Iceland, finally catching his drift, nodded and easily opened the laptop. A large, crisp, and flawless display presented itself to him. The keys were smooth and quiet, yielding to the tips of Iceland's fingers and the internet was quick and seamless as lightning. Iceland was very tempted to sift through Norway's email, open on the first tab, but decided to ignore it for now. Norway did, after all, let him use the laptop.

Before immersing himself in the internet, Iceland smiled slightly at Norway in appreciation. Norway returned the gesture with a nod and shifted his attention back to the current speaker.

Iceland's older brother was quite generous, especially in sacrificing his entertainment for his little brother. Not that Iceland would show it, because he wasn't into that emotional scene.

Norway really wasn't as bad as Iceland thought, and he even shared the same feelings toward World Conferences.

* * *

I am suffering from the worst writer's block I've ever had, which is why I haven't updated in ages. Sorry about that, and again for not sounding like myself in this chapter. Next update should come much sooner. Thanks and please review.


	15. Friends

Chapter 15: Tact is Tacky

* * *

The meeting dragged on and on. Norway, Iceland, and many others had the courtesy to not fall asleep—not that they could, because of the side-arguments that eventually escalated into "worldwide" debates. A particularly nasty quibble had erupted between Japan and Russia that ended with Romano having to threaten them, which led to Switzerland stepping and placing Russia and Japan on opposite sides of the table.

By now, Iceland had visited every corner of the internet. Every lolcat, meme, forum, and popup he saw shaved a couple points off his IQ. He rubbed his eyes, mind buzzing with images of cats and poorly drawn comics and trolls.

"Excuse me—this fails to relate to the matter at hand." Austria said loudly, raising his voice over the clamor of the room. Austria simply stated that to make it seem like he had been keeping track of the discussion. The fact he had not paid any attention whatsoever to the "matter at hand" was just as obvious as America, who slept head down on the table (jet lag), and Poland, who swore every time he lost a game on the computer.

"What _is _the matter at hand?" Russia questioned, tipping his head to the side in confusion.

"Touché." Austria conceded, with a slight nod.

"Can we get back on track?" Switzerland growled.

"What were we talking about again?" Turkey asked looking around the room with a saccharine, forced smile.

"The economy." Switzerland said flatly, widening his eyes in emphasis.

"Oh, sorry. I tune out things that only prolong this stupid conference." Turkey said lazily as he strode to the head of the table. He plucked a sheet out of his pocket and cleared his throat authoritatively. He then launched into a short, but effective idea about the economy, which gained much criticism from Norway and Netherlands. So much criticism, in fact, that other nations decided to intervene.

"I know Turkey is an idiot but give it a rest, you two." Greece said with a scowl in a rare moment of being awake.

"The only reason you two hate his plan is because you're swimming in cash," Poland snorted, tossing his hair.

"Well, excuse us for actually having an economy." Norway said coolly.

"He will never understand." Netherlands murmured.

"Oh, yeah? Say that again—"

"_Ahem_—back to the point, please." Switzerland harrumphed.

Iceland couldn't wait for nine p.m. to strike so that they'd be free until the next morning.

When the time did come, Iceland could hardly move his legs or form a complete sentence. He wondered how the people that actually care about these conferences felt. But, they hadn't spent most of the day on the internet. Even though Iceland wanted to sleep, he dreaded the nightmares that would come.

"I think I'm dying." he said flatly on the way up to their floor.

"Why is that?" Finland asked after some delay. He had been mesmerized by the arrow that leaned to the side with each floor they passed.

"The internet." Iceland responded.

"Hm. That reminds me of the time Netherlands and I went raving." Denmark said thoughtfully.

"He doesn't seem like a fun person to rave with." Iceland said with a scowl. Netherlands had the personality of a stone.

"Well, that's what _you _think." Denmark said with a conspicuous, overdone wink. "Music tends to coax personality out of people, right, Sweden?"

Once the doors of the elevator slid open seconds later, Sweden gave Denmark a brusque shove into the wall before carrying on with the business of finding their room. After fumbling a bit with the key, he eased the door open. Beyond the door was a comfortable, rather classy hotel room, with two beds, sensual lighting, and other amenities.

"Sleepin' arrangements're as follows: me an' Finland, and the rest o' y'." Sweden said authoritatively. His tone did not open the topic up for discussion.

Iceland, being the youngest, came last in the hierarchy, thus landing him a bad spot to sleep—between Denmark and Norway. Iceland didn't bother protesting, but complaining meant nothing without actual action. Meanwhile, Sweden read a thick book nearby, managing to maintain concentration over the loud, fast talking on the television and Denmark's humming from the shower. Iceland, in the meantime, hatched a plan to switch sleeping arrangements up while he pretended to watch TV with Norway.

"I'm sleeping on the floor." Iceland announced, scrounging around the room for extra blankets. He sneakily snatched a pillow from the bed and tossed it on the carpet. He hated sleeping with other people, because it entailed sheet wars and general discomfort.

"But…it's the floor." Norway said with a distant look to his eyes. And then, faintly, "Disgusting."

"Well, the floor is better than sleeping with you guys." Iceland snorted. "I mean, it's just so…so—" Iceland searched for the word as he fluffed his pillow meticulously.

"Gay?" Sweden provided, looking up from his book. His eyes had turned steely.

"More or less." Iceland said with a wave of his hand.

"More for you and Denmark then, Norway." Finland said with a shrug.

Iceland then made himself comfortable on the pillows next to Norway (sleeping arrangements would be in effect only when he actually went to sleep), who stared at the TV with utmost disinterest. Iceland couldn't tell if Norway's illness or boredom that caused the stupor.

Relocating from an armchair in the room, Sweden crawled into bed with his self-proclaimed wife and read a little more before quickly passing into a deep sleep, lying on his left side. Finland succumbed to tiredness shortly after and was next to fall asleep in his usual fetal position. One half of the room was already knocked out. It happened so quickly no one had a chance to say good night.

By now, Denmark had taken his place in the bed and fell asleep almost immediately, sleeping eerily still on his back, arms folded over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles. Better yet, Denmark had somehow migrated to the far edge of the bed. Norway, however, took up a ridiculous amount of space, both on his stomach and on his side at the same time. He slept in an artistic fashion. Once they were both in dreamland, Iceland clambered down the floor. As the only teenager, he was the last one awake and decided to pass time by watching more TV that would add to his internet-induced nightmares. But drowsiness snuck up on him quickly. He rolled over onto his stomach and blinked.

And he woke with radiant yellow light that spilled into the room when Sweden ripped the curtains apart. Denmark moaned, as if in pain, and Iceland bit back swear words. The light dazzled his eyes.

"Time t' g't up." Sweden announced. Sweden had already showered and cologne had already diffused in the room.

Finland clambered out of bed and made a beeline for the bathroom. But Iceland, Norway and Denmark lay there under the covers, in pain (more Iceland since he slept on the floor), unwilling to get up.

"How're y' feeling?" Sweden asked Norway, scowling as he surveyed Norway's physical condition.

Norway grunted noncommittally and rolled onto his stomach.

"I hate waking up." Denmark mumbled into his pillow. He sounded so agonized Iceland seriously wondered if he was crying. "Not mornings. Just waking up."

Iceland let his silence stand as agreement, at least with the first part—mornings were ungodly, and very much a time of mourning for the end of peaceful sleep. For Iceland, sleep held top priority over food, work, and everything else. Without adequate sleep Iceland took the rather volatile temperament of Romano.

Denmark rolled out of bed and crawled to his suitcase. He somehow managed to dress himself laying down. Sweden made a point of stepping over him and "accidentally prodding" Denmark's with the tip of his shoe. But Denmark had already begun to bruise. Despite the fact he hadn't showered or ever touched his hair, Denmark still managed to look good.

Iceland also looked sexy (so he thought), because he hadn't bothered showering and his hair looked most voluminous the day after a shower. In truth, he was just too lazy to shower that morning. Norway shot him a disapproving look and decided to take matters into his own hands (literally) by smashing Iceland's stray hairs with his hand. Iceland ignored him, because…well, whatever. He smelled good and wore flattering clothing. Oh, the nuances of adolescence.

"Your hair won't stay down," Norway muttered, somewhat incredulous. But he remained persistent.

"Give it up. You're going to scalp me if you keep doing that." Iceland said, shoving Norway away.

"You look like you just rolled out of bed. Not appropriate, Iceland." Norway pointed out.

"Whatever, Norway." Iceland scoffed. "There's bound to be a couple shitshows there."

Iceland's hypothesis proved to be correct. A few nations (America, Prussia, Poland, Netherlands, Turkey, and Spain) went clubbing the night before and showed up with yesterday's clothes. Turkey and Netherlands did a good job of hiding the evidence—Netherlands had that scarf covering the entirety of his neck and Turkey, well, Turkey could make anything look good, including lipstick stains on his shirt's collar. Spain had remarkably resilient bodily systems that dealt with alcohol duly. He was just as perky as always that morning.

"It has come to my attention," Romano said authoritatively, "that some of you bastards went clubbing last night. Without telling me. May God smite you fuckers."

At least Romano looked nice today. His hair shone, clean, his clothes were pressed, and he appeared to be relaxed.

"Let's get started…" he grumbled. "First we have that Kraut who is going to bitch about…stuff." Romano squinted at the paper in his hand. "Shit, can't read my handwriting. Whatever. Make it snappy."

For effect, he snapped his fingers a few times before dumping himself into his seat. Sweden, sitting a few seats over, bit his lip to keep from smiling at Romano's antics. He exchanged a look with Norway, who appeared to be equally amused.

Germany ignored Romano and Iceland ignored his surroundings. However, there seemed to be a trend: Sweden had a tendency of cutting people off demanding an answer to an obscure question and England shot down most propositions. Regardless, it seemed day two would be more productive. Most nations seemed to be in a better mood and with all the biscotti and coffee going around people actually exchanged smiles for no reason. Even Belarus gave Spain a warm smile.

Whatever Germany talked about seemed a topic of great interest. Nations took notes diligently. Some Luddites took notes on paper. Iceland did none of the above and practiced writing with his left hand (it kind of broke his brain in the process) on a stray piece of paper, while sneaking curious glances at Finland, a renowned lefty. Finland held his pencil in a terrifying left-handed vicegrip poised just above the paper as he pushed the pen down. Finland had such disabilities with right handed things that even his kitchen utensils were left handed. Most lefties adapted to the predominantly right handed world, but not Finland.

Other lefties in the room included Prussia, Austria, Netherlands, Canada and Belarus. Lefties always looked so dysfunctional when they wrote—Iceland found Prussia's style of writing, with the paper turned at a strange angle and his hand bent into itself quite amusing but also fascinating. Iceland was a staunch righty, but it'd be interesting to switch hands every so often.

Hours passed faster than yesterday because Greece (awake) managed to steer the "matter at hand" to the topic of oil with a few slyly posed questions. Greece sometimes had things to say, but he liked making his point through rhetorical questions—a mind game of sorts. Sweden, of course, had to intercept, but quickly caught Greece's drift and gracefully passed the baton to Norway who, awash with oil, had a lot to say about that topic and involved everyone in a discussion.

"Um, excuse me." Canada lifted his hand.

"_Excuse me._" He said again, louder this time.

Canada frowned and cleared his throat extremely loudly.

"Excuse me—" he said in a cold, ominous tone.

"What?" Switzerland demanded irritably.

"Let's break for lunch." Canada suggested. He colored with joy at being noticed.

"Sure. We're actually getting things done." Switzerland mumbled. A disbelieving, repressed hoot of laughter escaped him.

"Be back before two or I'll punch you." Romano said as he stalked out of the conference room.

At once, the room emptied. Iceland too strode out of the hotel as soon as possible.

Norway, Austria, and England stood nearby, discussing what to eat. Finland and the Baltics had already begun a cheerful stroll down the street. Spain's minivan, packed with people, had made it past the first stoplight.

Then Iceland felt a jab in his shoulder.

Iceland turned around to see Hong Kong staring right at him. His shirt was untucked with the first two buttons unbuttoned, his tie was loose, and his he belt had also been loosened. In other words, he almost mirrored Iceland in appearance. The only reason Iceland kept his belt on and shirt tucked was because Norway stood nearby.

"Hey." Hong Kong greeted with a stiff, manly wave. "My family ditched me."

"I ditched my family, if you can even call them that." Iceland said with a small laugh.

"So…want to get lunch?" Hong Kong asked with a shrug. He was trying to look casual, standing hunched over, hands in his pockets. This guy was so…awkward. Iceland found it funny.

At hearing Hong Kong's offer, Iceland almost said no, because he didn't feel like wandering around Rome with a guy he barely knew. And then he remembered the cash in his pocket. Norway's cash, actually. When it came to sharing, Norway was quite generous. He didn't mind if Iceland nicked food of his plate and shared his beer and laptop as well as his money. Then again, Norway was, quite literally, loaded with cash. As if his outward appearance wasn't enough (designer apparel, well-kept hair, fancy car), his leather wallet was bursting at the seams with all the banknotes stuffed between the leather folds. Like a good big brother, Norway shoved copious amounts of Euros into Iceland's hand shortly before they broke for lunch—way more than Iceland would actually need.

"Sure, why not." Iceland said, descending the stairs and slipping into the sidewalk's erratic traffic flow. "What do you want to eat?"

"I don't know." Hong Kong muttered.

"This city's too damn big." Iceland said, sidestepping to avoid being run over by a man on a bicycle.

"Maybe for you," Hong Kong smirked.

"Touché." Iceland agreed. He pointed to a quaint café down the street. "Hey, that restaurant over there looks…passable."

"But Russia is there." Hong Kong said with a grimace. Indeed, Russia was walking into that café with his sisters.

"Damn. We'll have to choose another." Iceland grumbled. Then, a new obstacle presented itself to them. And it was how to actually cross the street. Even though the light very clearly said don't walk, people still marched across the street into oncoming traffic. Iceland and Hong Kong exchanged deadpan glances.

"If we die, we won't have to sit through more speeches." Iceland said thoughtfully. "You up for it?"

"We're not going to die." Hong Kong said flatly. "Crossing streets like this is no big deal where I live."

Iceland took a few steps back so he could explode off the sidewalk. For a moment, he wondered whether avoiding any crossings would be a good idea. But that was cowardly and not very Viking-like, so he kicked off the curb and sprinted across the street without a second thought. He heard honking horns and screeching brakes along with a few garbled shouts in Italian, but he made it across safely. Iceland, one point. Rome, zero. Crossing a Rome avenue was certainly an accomplishment.

Hong Kong, instead of sprinting across, simply stepped in the way of traffic flow and made it to the other side.

"So where'd your family go?" Iceland asked.

"Dunno. They went…somewhere. Korea was screaming something about breasts, and—oh, he makes all of us look bad. I bet you think we're a bunch of weirdoes, right?" Hong Kong said defensively, folding his arms.

"No." Iceland said with a wry smile. Norway came to mind. Honestly, Korea's screaming about breasts and vital regions and whatnot was nowhere near as unnerving as Norway's talking to fake things. "I know people that are much worse, like my brother."

"Yeah, right." Hong Kong scoffed.

"No, seriously." Iceland insisted. "I'd say more, but Norway has a weird sixth sense so he'd probably know we're talking about him."

"That's bizarre." Hong Kong remarked.

"Exactly." Iceland murmured.

The two took their seats at a little table complete with a large umbrella to shield them from the warm noon sun. Eventually, a waiter wandered over and Iceland and Hong Kong took their orders of sandwiches, since they really didn't know what else to eat.

"So, yeah…" Hong Kong mumbled as he tried to find something to talk about. "Pretty boring conference, right?"

"That's an understatement." Iceland snorted. "Thank God this'll be over tomorrow afternoon. What have you been doing to pass the time at this dumb conference?" Iceland asked.

"I've just been drawing. I've also been helping out with a massive note passing affair that I believe Denmark started." Hong Kong said with a little nod in the direction of Iceland.

"Typical." Iceland said. "So, are you guys trying to accomplish something? Like escaping?"

"We were planning a flash mob, but the note reached Belarus and she ruined everything." Hong Kong said with a scowl.

The two finished lunch quickly and returned to the hotel just in time. Spain and his caravan of people, including Romano, arrived late, which was to be expected, so the extra time was used to catch up on social issues, also known as international gossip. Iceland learned all about Belgium's less than feminine habits and also about Austria and Hungary's marital argument. All Iceland did was lean his head slightly toward Switzerland and Estonia, who assumed Iceland wasn't listening.

Spain's group appeared five minutes later, eating gelato, and the conference resumed.

This time around, Iceland nearly fell asleep, but became interested when some document was signed. He was not interested enough to find out what the document entailed, but watched as some nations signed and as Switzerland let loose a great sigh of relief.

Another day had finished. As Iceland packed his bags, he couldn't believe he'd be going back home tomorrow.

The next morning, Iceland found himself in a foul mood. Iceland shifted his weight to his other leg, as the duffel bag's straps had begun to cut into his shoulder. He sighed loudly and glanced at Norway, who leaned against his suitcase with a determinedly blasé look on his face. Norway, despite his bout of illness, looked spiffy that morning, clad in black with a plaid scarf worn artfully around his neck.

"Can he just hurry up and say goodbye?" Iceland grumbled, referring to Denmark, who still flit about the conference room prolonging goodbyes to all of his friends.

"It's not like he won't see them again." Norway said, his tone tight with exasperation.

"We're going to miss our flight." Finland said, pointing to the clock in the foyer.

"Wait, what do you mean by 'our' flight?" Iceland asked, recoiling in horror. No— Iceland was Reykjavik bound, wasn't he? He wanted to go home and sleep and do nothing and wait for time to pass over him and bring the long days of spring.

"Yeah, _our— " _Finland pointed to Denmark, Sweden, and Norway. "— flights."

Iceland nodded, relieved.

Ten minutes later, Denmark finally resurfaced from the conference room.

"Ah, it was nice to see everyone again." He remarked. "Well, off to the airport, is that right?"

Once again, they got a ride from Spain that rickety minivan. This time, however, Spain carted Austria and Hungary in his van. The married couple made a point of sitting on opposite sides of the car. Judging sour look on Hungary's face, the two were, indeed, in a marital argument. Spain's love advice didn't seem to help, though he thought it did.

"Austria, you must kiss her and tell her you love her." Spain said passionately. "A beautiful, strong woman like her deserves you and you deserve her."

"Yes, thank you." Austria said curtly.

"The love between you is so beautiful." Spain said, going starry-eyed.

"Yes." Austria said mechanically. He looked over his shoulder at Norway, pleading with those violet eyes for Norway to change the subject. Iceland then remembered the two were actually good friends. He looked to Norway to see what his "response" would be. Norway only smirked at Austria and coyly looked out the blurry window until they arrived at Rome's airport.

After perfunctory goodbyes, Iceland strode into the terminal with his fellow Nordics.

"Guess what, Iceland?" Denmark said, beaming. "Surprise— you're coming with us to celebrate Christmas in Copenhagen!"

"This is not happening." Iceland said frankly.

"It sure is." Finland said. "Are you excited?"

"No." Iceland laughed incredulous. "You can't make me." Iceland said coldly, taking a few steps back. "I want to go home."

"Relax, Iceland." Denmark said with a vague smile.

"What's the matter with you?" Norway demanded. He grabbed Iceland by the collar and yanked him closer.

"Let go of me." Iceland growled.

They were the last people he'd want to spend time with at the moment. He didn't know why, but he felt a sudden antagonism towards them. All of sudden, Norway's prim habits, Denmark's hair, Finland's smile and Sweden's accent grated on his nerves. These people surely had better things to do than sit around and celebrate Christmas. Iceland had better things to do, also. He wanted to be alone and watch the ocean and contemplate in the four hours of daylight.

"Why would I want to go to Copenhagen with you people?" Iceland snapped.

"It's Christmastime, idiot." Norway snapped, dragging Iceland along. "Act your age, for once."

Iceland tried wriggling out of Norway's grasp. Even though Norway wasn't much taller, Iceland still couldn't fight him off. Iceland pushed Norway away and Norway would only latch on tighter, smashing Iceland's arms against his body. Iceland gritted his teeth and managed to break away in a single twisting motion. When he felt his arms free, his mind raced to form a plan—he'd hop on another flight to anywhere or hide somewhere in Rome, anything to get away from these people. But before he could execute the very first step of a graceful sprint he reserved only for football, another Viking stopped him (nonviolently) right in his tracks. All Sweden had to do was loop a finger around Iceland's belt.

"I hate you all." Iceland said loudly, hoping people would hear him.

"Fine." Denmark threw his hands up in exasperation. He fixed a horrifying glare at Iceland and said, with a bitter grin. "Have fun in Reykjavik."

"All right. Where's my gate?"

"That's your problem now, Iceland." Norway said with a wave goodbye.

"Well, goodbye for now." Finland said cheerfully. He gave Iceland a few pats on the back, each one harder and harder to the point where they became shoves right in the other direction.

"To hell with all of you." Iceland said under his breath.

* * *

Head canon says those nation are left handed. If you want my reasoning, review and I will gladly explain myself.

PS Iceland's mad because...well, that'll be explained next chapter. Teehee. Please review.


	16. Intruders

Chapter 16: It's a Bit Chilly

Sorry, writer's block. And school.

* * *

The door slammed shut behind Iceland.

He dragged his fingers along the wall as he ascended the stairs in darkness, grateful that he had been blessed with legs long enough to clear three steps at a time.

Of course, by the time arrived on his homeland about an hour ago, the sun had already disappeared.

He dumped the bag on the clean wood floor of his room and threw himself face down on the bed. He took deep sniff of his pillow, holding his breath to keep the smell of familiarity in him. Halfheartedly, Iceland rolled onto his side and blinked a few times. His gaze drifted to the outline of his desk against the wall, and then to his dresser, and the pile of clothes on the ground.

It had dawned on him during the descent to Keflavik—the reason he felt so angry was because the day hardly lasted four hours in Iceland. And after being in sunny Rome, Iceland could hardly think that he was returning to darkness.

And he loved his homeland, he really did—the snow tasted sweet as it fell from the sky and he felt warm dipping the tips of his fingers into the bouncy, fluffy snow. Iceland loved tipping his head toward the sea, listening to the rustling waves and the whispering breeze that folded and swayed the blue and red flag. He loved his ancient language. Every sliver of foliage he touched teemed with magic and the countryside seemed to hold surprises in every field and river and hill and rock.

The thought nearly brought tears to his eyes. He frowned and kicked his boots off. With a sigh, he jerked the covers of him and rolled onto his stomach. He stared the analog clock for a little while before finally closing his eyes.

;

;

Iceland lost track of how many days passed after his arrival. He didn't know how many days until Christmas nor could he recall the last he showered.

Iceland shuffled into the foyer after a paltry dinner that evening, heading for the stairs—he was going back to bed— when his front door abruptly flung open. Iceland screamed a swearword and staggered back, mind reeling. There were strangers in his doorway! He made a move to slam the door on the perpetrators but Sweden pushed back so hard the door banged against the wall.

"Oh, no." Iceland said in a low voice. At that moment, he wished he had his cell phone so he could call the police.

"Surprise!" Denmark shouted, wrapping Iceland in hug that knocked the air of out Iceland, who now stood in the doorway, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.

"We brought Christmas to you since we couldn't bring you to Christmas!" Finland said brightly as he adjusted the Santa hat on his head.

In perfect synchronization, the four of them barreled into Iceland's house. Iceland, outnumbered by three Vikings plus Finland, instinctively put his hands in the air. He had a feeling, judging by how quickly, how gracefully the four executed the move of busting the door open, that they had done this too many times.

"You people are sick." He spat.

They ignored that comment. Sweden had already run to the wall, inspecting the small dent he caused.

"We each arrived on the island Jólasveinar style." Denmark added, eyes glittering. "I arrived the same day you went to Reykjavik, on the same plane, too, and you didn't even notice—" as he continued, his voice swelled with pride.

"Showoff," Norway interrupted.

"—you really should stop and observe your surroundings once in a while. At one point I was right behind you in the terminal and you didn't notice. I was also following you in the taxi." Denmark continued eagerly.

Iceland drew breath to speak, but closed his mouth. Words escaped him, not because of Denmark's sketchy doings but because he didn't know how he felt about his fellow Nordics flying all the way to Reykjavik just to spend Christmas with him. More than anything, Iceland felt flattered, to the point where he was about to break with humiliation.

"I showed up the next day." Finland said. "Sweden arrived on the eighteenth and Norway on the nineteenth."

"Also, me, Sweden, and Finland followed you around town on Friday." Denmark added. By now, a massive smirk had claimed half of his face. "I mean, I was showing everyone my biking skills—I really don't know how you missed us."

"Where are you staying?" Iceland asked.

"Hotel Borg," Norway replied. Of course they'd stay there—it was only the fanciest hotel in town.

"You can stay in my house…" Iceland said hesitantly.

"Good." Finland smiled. "We actually already put our stuff here last night."

"This is ridiculous!" Iceland fumed, waving his arms around. "You people broke into my house again?"

"Y' weren't home." Sweden said flatly, pointing to the front door. "An' th' doors were unlocked."

"Well, yeah. I don't lock my doors. This is Reykjavik." Iceland said emphatically, raising an eyebrow. Honestly, if he had to keep track of keys, he would never make it into his house.

"So, what's for dinner?" Finland piped up, wisely changing the subject before Norway could launch into a lecture about safety.

"Uh." Iceland paused. Now that the thought about it, he didn't have any real food to serve. Iceland usually let his maids deal with making him food—and they cooked very well. Iceland would always wake to the smell of breakfast cooking. But when they weren't there, Iceland lived off of chips, beer, microwave meals, cheese, and cereal.

"Well, I don't have much." He said sheepishly.

"Do you have alcohol?" Denmark asked as he made himself comfortable on the plushy couch in the living room.

"Beer and vodka," Iceland answered. He didn't know how the alcohol had gotten into his house, now that he thought about it. Maybe his old maids liked to keep him stocked with the goods.

"Oh, that's perfect." Finland said, making a beeline for the kitchen.

"Get me two beers, Fin—thanks." Denmark called.

"Excuse me—" Norway said pointedly. "Shouldn't we actually eat first?"

"Finland an' I'll go to th' supermarket." Sweden said. At that moment, he felt a distinct sense of déjà vu. He had done this routine before. At least they weren't in a hurry to make a seventeen layer cake. Now that Sweden looked back on that day, he wondered how the hell they managed to bake all those cakes without failing. He hid the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at recalling the memory with his hand and strode out of the door with Finland (beer in hand) on that cold night.

"Iceland, is Mr. Puffin around?" Norway asked out of the blue.

Iceland hesitated, and then resisted a smile. He had just remembered all the drama he caused when Norway spoke to Mr. Puffin like a brother. God, what a pansy he was, looking back on that day.

Iceland waved Norway over and went up the stairs, veering into his tastefully cluttered room. Iceland strode to his window and flung it open, sticking his head out into the cold night air. Almost at once, Mr. Puffin made a dramatic entrance into the room, flying in circles and doing loops in the air before finally settling on Iceland's shoulder.

"Yo, Nor." Mr. Puffin greeted. "What's going on, my man?"

"Ah, Mr. Puffin. How good it is to see you." Norway greeted, smiling slightly. He gently stroked Mr. Puffin's slick black feathers.

"Likewise." Mr. Puffin said with a slight nod.

"How are your wife and children?" Norway asked politely.

"They're well. Beautiful as always." Mr. Puffin said enthusiastically.

"They surely got the genes from you." Norway said with a sure nod. "You are a handsome puffin."

"Oh, don't kiss ass now." Mr. Puffin threatened.

Norway let a short, rare and good-natured laugh slip.

At this point, Iceland bit his lip to keep from collapsing into hysterical laughter. The tears were already brimming and he felt his cheeks and ears heat up with blood. In truth, Iceland didn't know what had gotten into him since the Nordics had arrived—everything seemed to be more amusing.

The two continued to converse lightly about family, recent happenings, other people ("That Denmark guy is a hoodlum, I tell you!" Mr. Puffin had said), tastes in music (Iceland discovered Norway had an affinity for classical music), favorite type of alcohol, the like.

"Well, Nor, I gotta jet." Mr. Puffin said. He pecked the side of Iceland's head (ow) and flitted out of the room.

"He's a nice puffin." Norway said fondly, sitting primly amongst the mess of covers and sheets and clothes on Iceland's bed. Iceland steeled himself for a remark about the clutter of his room, but it never came.

"Uh, I guess." Iceland mumbled. He cracked a smile.

"What's so funny?" Norway asked, stifling a yawn.

"N-Nothing—" Iceland let a few giggles slip. What was he laughing at? Self-consciousness choked him at that moment, and he became acutely aware of Norway's bemused, cadet blue stare. A few more laughs slipped before Iceland let loose a flurry of laughter. Seeing Denmark, who had just appeared in the doorway, made him laugh more.

"Nor, what did you do to him?" Denmark asked, deeply perplexed by Iceland's sudden laugh attack.

Norway lifted his hands in defense and said, "Nothing. I have no idea what's wrong with him."

"Hm." Denmark's eyes narrowed suspicious.

I think you need sleep." Norway said flatly, nodding toward Iceland.

When the clock hit two in the morning, Denmark finally realized they were missing two people. In watching TV, rating girls on TV, eating, drinking, and sledding, Iceland too had forgotten about Finland and Sweden, who ran off to get groceries hours ago.

"I think they're lost." Norway said, dialing Sweden's cell phone number. He held the phone to his ear and waited. Finally, he said, "Where are you?"

Iceland and Denmark waited for a change of expression on Norway's face or something else to hint Sweden and Finland's whereabouts, but nothing came. Iceland didn't know why he expected so much from him.

"Oh." Norway finally said. "See you soon."

He slid the phone back into his pocket.

"Sweden and Finland have gone clubbing." Norway announced.

At that moment, something magical happened: Iceland laughed at the thought of Sweden in a nightclub while loud, raucous laughter exploded from of Denmark, who almost fell to the floor, as mirth had weakened his knees. Norway, too, chortled at the thought they all seemed to share.

"He doesn't seem like a fun person to go clubbing with," Iceland bit back giggles and glanced at Denmark, who nearly cried on the floor.

"Sweden, believe it or not, makes a fine partner to club with." Norway managed to keep a straight face while uttering that sentence.

An image of Sweden dancing in an unorthodox, uncoordinated fashion came to Iceland's head. He guffawed at the thought. Meanwhile, Denmark's laugh had gone silent.

"You know who's a good dancer?" Denmark said through gasps.

"Besides the usual people, no." Iceland referred to Spain, Romano, Italy, Belarus, and Poland who always tore up the dance floor with awesome moves. Spain and Romano had ridiculous stamina, Belarus' ballerina grace carried over to other kinds of dance, and Poland could dance anything from a mazurka to a waltz to the tarantella.

"Finland," Denmark chuckled. "You wouldn't guess it, right?"

"Not really." Iceland mumbled. He cleared his throat to hide a snort.

"I'm going to sleep." Norway said abruptly. "Good night."

Iceland and Denmark exchanged smirks, because, well, typical Norway.

"I'm going to wait until Sweden and Fin get back." Denmark cackled. "That way, I can harass them."

"Whatever. Just don't get arrested." Iceland said with a shrug as he followed Norway up the stairs.

He slipped under the covers of his bed with a content sigh. He rolled onto his stomach and closed his eyes. For some reason, he couldn't wait until tomorrow.

The next day, Iceland woke in daylight. He wasted not a second of the remaining morning hours—two of the four hours of daylight—and made his way down the stairs. Denmark was curled up at the bottom of the stairs, clutching his side, and Iceland easily stepped over him, striding into the kitchen.

"Good morning." Norway said with a nod.

"Did you cook?"

"No." Norway snorted. "I'm hopeless at cooking."

"The only people that cook are sleeping." Finland replied. His eyes shifted nervously to Denmark.

"Oh, how did you find Reykjavik's nightlife?" Iceland asked curiously.

"Different." Finland said fondly. "I quite liked it."

"What happened to Denmark?" Iceland asked.

"Well, Sweden and I walked in at around six in the morning. Denmark was waiting for us and he jumped out at us. He scared Sweden so bad, Sweden beat Denmark up to the point where Denmark passed out. Denmark may or may not be suffering from internal bleeding." Finland explained. He craned his neck to take a second look at Denmark.

"But I think he's alive." Finland said hastily.

"Honestly, his state of being doesn't matter." Norway grumbled. "What matters is breakfast."

"Didn't you people go grocery shopping last night or something?" Iceland asked suspiciously.

"Yeah." Finland replied. "But I people watched while Sweden bought ingredients. Not real food. You know Sweden—if it's not homemade, it's not worth it."

Iceland sighed a long, loud sigh that he hoped would reach Sweden upstairs.

"It's pathetic that we're grown men and can't cook for ourselves." Norway said frankly.

"What's pathetic is that you people can skin live animals and cook them on a stick over an open flame yet you can't actually cook." Iceland amended Norway's statement.

"I never liked killing things." Finland admitted shyly. "It depresses me."

"Blood is disgusting." Iceland heard the shudder in Norway's voice alone. Interesting. Iceland would have assumed Norway was immune to the heebie-jeebies blood often stirred. Iceland didn't mind blood or gore, as video games had desensitized him, but he couldn't stand the thought of injections.

"Iceland, don't be like us. Learn to cook." Finland said with a small smile.

"Go wake Sweden up." Norway said firmly. He ran the tip of his finger along the edge of the table impatiently.

"No, I don't think that's a good id—" Finland said, paling.

"I'll do it. It's not a big deal." Iceland shrugged. He didn't find Sweden terrifying at all—Romano scared him a bit, as did France, but Iceland didn't take to feelings of fear as it was. Besides, when food was a stake, he'd face anything.

Iceland eased the door to Sweden's room open and stepped in.

Sweden slept oddly that morning, on his left side with his arms folded on the pillow, creating a secondary pillow for his head. The covers had drifted to his hips and he slept in last night's clothes. Sweden looked peaceful—not happy, because Sweden didn't give away emotions even in slumber, but certainly at ease. Iceland almost backed out of the room—let it be known he wasn't afraid— but a loud stomach growl reminded him of his duties.

"Hey, Sweden." Iceland said, creeping closer to him. The sunlight pouring into the room fell upon Sweden, illuminating his countenance and contours of his body.

Iceland waited a few seconds. Sweden frowned and untangled his arms. He mumbled something under his breath and rolled onto his back. Sweden stretched, reaching for the headboard. He latched on and arched his back in some sort of stretch before letting loose a long sigh.

"Sweden?" Iceland said, louder this time.

Sweden's eyes shot open and he gasped.

"Y' scared me." He said, slamming his glasses on his face.

"Sorry." Iceland apologized sheepishly. "We're hungry and Denmark is barely alive, so Nor and Finland—" Iceland paused. He couldn't believe he had just referred to Norway by his nickname. Iceland shook his head, disgusted with himself and continued. "—Norway and Finland sent me to wake you so you could cook for us."

Sweden looked like he was about to say something, but clamped his mouth shut.

"Idiots." he mumbled groggily.

Iceland had a feeling the insult was aimed at him too, but he didn't mind.

Sweden stooped down to his suitcase and fished a tartan bathrobe, which he flung over himself as he stomped out of the room and down the stairs. When he reached Denmark, curled up near the last step, Sweden "accidentally" stepped on him, moving on as if nothing had happened.

Sweden said nothing, but Iceland caught the vague smirk.

Iceland bit back an uncomfortable smile and strode into the kitchen.

"I heard you had fun last night." Norway said with a knowing look at Sweden.

"Mhmm." Sweden hummed, picking ingredients out of the fridge. He said nothing more and began to cook.

"What are we going to do today?" Finland asked curiously.

"Whatever you people want to do." Iceland replied. "The sun will be down in three hours, anyway."

_;_

_;_

In the following days, Iceland let the Nordics drag him wherever they wanted to go, from waterfalls to glaciers to the blue lagoon and Laugavega and all that. He didn't like being out of the house for so long, but it was good to see them enjoying themselves. Iceland did have to deal with long-winded accounts of their Viking days along with arguments over who was the best Viking, but he did learn interesting things. When Denmark was talking about how many people they killed, Norway intercepted with detailed descriptions of they killed people that made Finland cringe. Denmark was a fan of impaling and Norway tended to slit the jugular and other large vessels, but Sweden preferred flaying people open. Iceland wouldn't have expected that, since Sweden was such a calm, borderline apathetic person. And Finland revealed that he tended to kill by jamming his sword inside someone's torso and ripping the body until the sword hit the pubic bone and could cut no more. At hearing that, Iceland had to wince.

Luckily, they were in the twenty first century.

But it was strange to think that these people standing right by Iceland could testify to the history and happenings of the time, with scars to prove it.

"W' fought an' got our land." Sweden said.

When they were home, Denmark hummed Christmas carols very loudly and Norway occasionally interrupted to inform Denmark that he was severely off key (Iceland didn't know how many times he'd heard "You're doing it wrong" that day) only to hum it back with his special corrections. It was clear that Norway was much more musically inclined, but Denmark cheerily refused his advice that soon became demands.

After listening to so much humming, Iceland eventually found himself humming along. And then the contagious carols infected Sweden, who had also fallen to the catchy tunes. Finland was the only one that seemed to be immune, mainly because he had a habit of humming Christmas songs no matter the season.

"Guys, I can't listen to four carols at once." Finland said after tolerating hours of humming. "Can you decide on one?"

Of course not.

;

;

Iceland had begun to float toward consciousness. He felt the warmth on his shoulder and the foreign shaking on his body, but he was too lazy, too relaxed to fight back. As his consciousness congealed he heard Norway's whispers.

"Iceland, wake up." Norway said gently.

The scent of liquor on his breath made Iceland stir, and at hearing his name, he opened his eyes.

"What is it?" Iceland asked groggily. He glanced at the clock. Three in the morning.

"You don't mind an early Christmas present, do you?" Norway asked. There was an odd shimmer of intrigue, of anticipation to Norway's cadet blue eyes. He wore his top-quality winter coat and a scarf wrapped around his neck.

"N-No." Iceland stifled a yawn. What was so important that needed Iceland to wake up at this ungodly hour? Norway knew Iceland took his sleep very seriously.

"Put warm clothes on and meet me at the front door in five minutes." Norway said in a businesslike tone.

* * *

I'm a bit off in my writing, but we'll see what happens. Review, please.


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